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Show Fancy's Chances. Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge- A dirge for myriad chances dead, In grief your mournful accents merge- Sing, sing the girls we might have wed. Sweet lips were those we never pressed In love that never lost the dew In sunlight of love confessed- Kind were the girls we never knew. Sing low, sing low, while in the glow Of fancy's hour those forms we trace, Hovering around the years that go- Those years our live can ne'er replace Sweet lips are those that never turn A cruel word; dear eyes that lead The heart on in a blithe concern; White hand of her we did not wed; Fair hair or dark, that falls along A form that never shrinks with time - Bright image of a realm of song Standing beside our years of prime When you shall go, then may we know The heart is dead, the man is old; Life can no other charm bestow When girls we might have loved turn cold. Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, in Harper's |