When days grow long, and brain and hands grow weary,
    And hot the city street,
Forth to the haunts, by cooling winds made cheery
    We fly with willing feet.

We leave our cares and labours all behind us,
    The city's noise and din,
And, hid securely where they cannot find us,
    We drink the sunshine in.

But when the days grow long with bitter sorrow,
    And hearts grow sick with woe,
Where are the haunts that we may seek to-morrow?
    Where can we hide or go?

Holds earth no nook, where hearts with sorrow breaking,
    May find a summer's rest?
A season's respite from the weary aching
    That gnaws within the breast?

O God! if we could fly and leave behind us
    Our crosses and our grief,
Could hide a season where they could not find us,
    What infinite relief.

Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.

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