I saw two children intertwine Their arms about each other, Like the young tendrils of a vine About its nearest brother: And ever and anon, As gaily they ran on, They looked into each other's face Anticipating an embrace. I saw these two when they were men, I watched them meet one day, They touched each other's hands -- and then Each went on his own way. There did not seem a tie Of love -- a bond or chain, To make them turn the lingering eye, Or grasp the hand again. This is a page in our life's book We all of us turn over: The web is rent, The hour-glass spent, And, oh! the paths we once forsook How seldom we recover. Our days are broken into parts, And every remnant has a tale Of the abandonment of hearts, Which make our freshest hopes grow pale; And when we talk of Friendship mutter, We know not what it is we utter. I weep not that our fate is dark, I quail not that the wild winds hark About our heads, and miseries mark Their victories on our brows: -- But though the dynasty of Fate Doth make our words a feather's weight, Doth mark our pledges with derision, And force us into indecision, And feigning of our vows -- I care not that our lore may be Deep as the everlasting sea; When will the falling of a star, The darting of a sun-born beam, Compare with what our spirits are? And what unto ourselves we seem, Is tinctured with a life so small, So wretchedly ephemeral, As thrills our phantom-like communions -- No fellow-soul's fraternal unions. |