IF there be graveyards in the heart From which no roses spring, A place of wrecks and old gray tombs From which no roses spring, A place of wrecks and old gray tombs From which no birds take wing, Where linger buried hopes and dreams Like ghosts among the graves, Why, buried hopes are dismal things, And lonely ghosts are knaves! If there come dreary winter days, When summer roses fall And lie, forgot, in withered drifts Along the garden wall; If all the wreaths a lover weaves Turn thorns upon the brow, -- Then out upon the silly fool Who makes not merry now! For if we cannot keep the past, Why care for what's to come? The instant's prick is all that stings, And then the place is numb. If Life's a lie and Love's a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here's a health to fond deceit -- God bless you, dear, to-day! |