Explore "Lost" by Annie Fellows Johnston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
CHILDHOOD flits by with flowers in both its hands, -- / We know not why it leaves, nor when it goes; / But suddenly we miss some subtle grace, / As perfume passes from a fading rose; / We scarce divine, yet somehow faintly feel / In the soft air a far-blown breath of snows.
Straying afar, unheeded and alone / Upon life's highway 'mid the busy throng, / Swept in its eager, restless race along / To the great future, unexplored, unknown, / The little child is lost. And when with haste / The wanderer's footsteps through the streets are traced, / They find a man with features pale and stern, / But the lost child will nevermore return.