Explore "Incomplete" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The summer is just in its grandest prime, / The earth is green and the skies are blue; / But where is the lilt of the olden time, / When life was a melody set to rhyme, / And dreams were so real they all seemed true?
There is sun on the meadow, and blooms on the bushes, / And never a bird but is mad with glee; / But the pulse that bounds, and the blood that rushes, / And the hope that soars, and the joy that gushes, / Are lost for ever to you and me.
There are dawns of amber and amethyst; / There are purple mountains, and pale pink seas / That flush to crimson where skies have kist; / But out of life there is something missed -- / Something better than all of these.
We miss the faces we used to know, / The smiling lips and the eyes of truth. / We miss the beauty and warmth and glow / Of the love that brightened our long ago, / And ah! we miss our youth.