A fringe of rushes, one green line br Upon a faded plain; br A silver streak of water-shine, br Above, tree-watchers twain. br It was our resting-place awhile, br And still, with backward gaze, br We say: “'Tis many a weary mile, br But there were happy days.” br br And shall no ripple break the sand br Upon our farther way? br Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand? br Or leafy tree-tops sway? br The gold of dawn is surely met br In sunset's lavish blaze; br And, in horizons hidden yet, br There shall be happy days.