When I look back, as daylight closes,
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And count my gains and losses o'er,
Rough with the smooth; the rue, the roses;
The lost and lovely that no more
Come when I knock upon the door,
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Or even answer when I call,
I see, of all that went before,
The laughter was the best of all.
Man's life, some say, a thing of prose is;
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Not so his life—as mine of yore—
Who on Miranda's breast reposes—
Ah! God, that fragrant frock she wore!
Hid honey still at the heart's core
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Her bosom like a hushed snow-fall—
And yet, for all we kissed and swore,
The laughter was the best of all.
Truth after truth old Time discloses,
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But, as we hobble to fourscore,
Each finds that not as he supposes
The gains for which he travailed sore:
Glory or gold, the wine we pour,
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The face that held our lives in thrall—
Somehow the bravest grows a bore,
The laughter was the best of all.
Prince, much of wisdom heretofore
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Time's patient pages doth bescrawl;
This is the sum of all our lore—
The laughter was the best of all.