The holiest of all holidays are those
. . . .Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
. . . .The secret anniversaries of the heart,
. . . .When the full river of feeling overflows;—
The happy days unclouded to their close;
. . . .The sudden joys that out of darkness start
. . . .As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
. . . .Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
. . . .White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
. . . .White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;— a Fairy Tale
. . . .Of some enchanted land we know not where,
. . . .But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim