Poem by Albert Laighton

A Passing Thought

THE violets are dead,
And faded is the rose;
The autumn leaves are shed;
High drift the winter snows,
And no flower blows.

Oh, why complain, sad soul?
Life may be verdure-crowned,
Howe'er the seasons roll;
And Love's sweet flower be found
The whole year round.

1. The Birth of Light
2. After-Bloom
3. To a Bigot
4. Under the Leaves
5. Ballad of Ruth Bay

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