either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, - Lewis Carroll

The air is bright with hues of light And rich with laughter and with singing: Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, And banners wave, and bells are ringing: But silence falls with fading day, And there's an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day!

Those locks of jet are turned to gray, And she is strange and far away That might have been mine own to-day — That might have been mine own, my dear, Through many and many a happy year — That might have sat beside me here.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest? Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest?