N.S.U.

Some place, joined with the stores of sun and snow,

Who tread the fragrant earth scarce long ago,

There comes a man. Ne’er was such tragic plot as this,

An autocratic theft to reminisce.

‘Tis fine! ‘Tis sweet to dwell on bygone days.

Yet one is wont to ponder; now, who pays?

Who Time becomes, whose own Self must be flung

Down cellar steps like rotten fish. I’m stung.

All bitterness — in bitter weeks enough.

Return to him whose tired soul ‘scaped the rough —

(I wonder how his hands did feel to hold.)

If I can mourn, how sharp your pain, how cold,

In those shared hearts. His days remain thereof,

‘Twere void of much, but ne’er did want for love.

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