February 18

I DREAMED that I was growing old (It may be it was not a dream),

I shivered in the frosty cold

And trembled in the summer beam;

It cost me many a bitter sigh,

Until I knew it was not I.

The house my Maker for me made

Received His likeness in its form;

His wisdom all its parts displayed,

His beauty clothed its chambers warm;

If not so fair as years go by,

What matter—for it is not I.

The lamps that light its rooms burn low,

Its music sounds more dull of late,

And one—it may be friend or foe,

Knocks loudly often at its gate;

I tremble then—I scarce know why,

My house he claims, it is not I.

I am indeed a dweller there,

A winter and a summer guest,

Its rust and its decay I share,

But cannot look therein to rest;

I'm sure to leave it by and by,

'Tis but my house—it is not I.

I sometimes think, when lying down,

For the last time I lock the door,

And leave the home so long my own,

That I may find it yet once more

So changed and fair I scarce shall know

The home I lived in long ago.

J. F. A. BROWN

TIME