Page:Ethel Churchill 3.pdf/3



And yet it is a wasted heart: It is a wasted mind That seeks not in the inner world Its happiness to find;

For happiness is like the bird That broods above its nest, And finds beneath its folded wings, Life's dearest, and its best.

A little space is all that hope Or love can ever take; The wider that the circle spreads, The sooner it will break.

season had recently commenced its round of gayety; the present was outwardly as glad as if there had been no past; the sunshine played over the onward current of