The wind is full of memories; It whispers low and clear The sacred echoes of the past, And brings the dead more near. - Elizabeth Akers Allen

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them and give me my childhood again!

Behold, we live through all things,—famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery,
All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst
On soul and body,—but we can not die.
Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn,—
Lo, all things can be borne!

Up the sky in silence holy
Comes the young moon slowly, slowly,
Softly with her light divine,
Filling, like a cup with wine.