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.