FORTY springs back, I recall, We met at this phase of the Maytime: We might have clung close through all, But we parted when died that daytime. We parted with smallest regret; Perhaps should have cared but slightly, Just then, if we never had met: Strange, strange that we lived so lightly! Had we mused a little space At that critical date in the Maytime, One life had been ours, one place, Perhaps, till our long cold claytime. -- This is a bitter thing For thee, O man: what ails it? The tide of chance may bring Its offer; but nought avails it! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOURNER A LA MODE by JOHN GODFREY SAXE QUATRAIN: FAME by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AUSTERITY OF POETRY by MATTHEW ARNOLD CHEMISTRY OF A POEM by CAROLYN AUSTIN IN MEMORIAM, NINTH OF AB by BEN AVROM WHAT SAID THE LITTLE ADMIRAL? by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |