A Fringe Of Rushes, One Green Line Upon A Faded Plain; A Silver Streak Of Water-Shine, Above, Tree-Watchers Twain. It Was Our Resting-Place Awhile, And Still, With Backward Gaze, We Say: ''Tis Many A Weary Mile, But There Were Happy Days.' And Shall No Ripple Break The Sand Upon Our Farther Way? Or Reedy Ranks All Knee-Deep Stand? Or Leafy Tree-Tops Sway? The Gold Of Dawn Is Surely Met In Sunset'S Lavish Blaze; And, In Horizons Hidden Yet, There Shall Be Happy Days.