The holiest of all holidays are those <br />Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; <br />The secret anniversaries of the heart, <br />When the full river of feeling overflows;-- <br />The happy days unclouded to their close; <br />The sudden joys that out of darkness start <br />As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart <br />Like swallows singing down each wind that blows! <br />White as the gleam of a receding sail, <br />White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, <br />White as the whitest lily on a stream, <br />These tender memories are;--a fairy tale <br />Of some enchanted land we know not where, <br />But lovely as a landscape in a dream.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holidays/
