A fringe of rushes -- one green line 
   Upon a faded plain; 
A silver streak of water-shine -- 
   Above, tree-watchers twain. 
It was our resting-place awhile, 
   And still, with backward gaze, 
We say: "'Tis many a weary mile -- 
   But there were happy days." 

And shall no ripple break the sand 
   Upon our farther way? 
Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand? 
   Or leafy tree-tops sway? 
The gold of dawn is surely met 
   In sunset's lavish blaze; 
And -- in horizons hidden yet -- 
   There shall be happy days.