Sweet, Sweet Days Are Passing

A poem by Louisa May Alcott

Sweet, sweet days are passing
O'er my happy home.
Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.
Cold are the days when winter comes again.
When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink ;
Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;
Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."

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