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.
Mary Hannay Foott (1885)