By Charles Swain
Cares, Cares,—who is without them?
Troubles are plenty wherever we stray—
Pass round the glass and think nothing about them,
The more you make of them the longer they stay.
Tears, Tears,—who has not met them?
Sorrow’s the dew of life’s morning and night;
Pass round the goblet and try to forget them,
Speak of the bloom, but ne’er mention the blight.
Life—life,—who would desire it?
Who for its pleasures would suffer its pains?
Pass round the glass, for our spirits require it;
Hide with life’s roses the weight of life’s chains.