 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
WE SHALL MEET THEM AGAIN.
How often while we tread the street,
Indifferent, weary, do we meet,
By chance, a face that seems more sweet
Than other faces.
Indifferent, weary, do we meet,
By chance, a face that seems more sweet
Than other faces.
How often while we tread the years,
There comes and passes, disappears,
By chance, some one whose presence cheers
Our darkened places.
There comes and passes, disappears,
By chance, some one whose presence cheers
Our darkened places.
546
All unawares are both, and yet
We look back with a vague regret,
And think that if we could have met
Or known them longer,
We look back with a vague regret,
And think that if we could have met
Or known them longer,
We might have loved them more than those
With whom our linkéd fortune flows,
They might have given us repose,
Or made us stronger.
With whom our linkéd fortune flows,
They might have given us repose,
Or made us stronger.
So chorded with our varying brood
Of feelings, chimed in with our mood,
That we were always understood
Without the telling.
Of feelings, chimed in with our mood,
That we were always understood
Without the telling.
And as we ponder, gazing back
Along the crowded hazy track
Where they have gone, our fancied lack
Doth bring a swelling
Along the crowded hazy track
Where they have gone, our fancied lack
Doth bring a swelling
Up from our hearts, which so appears
Like real sorrow, that the tears
Come too, and though our yearning hears
Cold reason saying,
Like real sorrow, that the tears
Come too, and though our yearning hears
Cold reason saying,
It was but folly,—still we dream—
“They might have loved us,”—and we seem
Like foolish children down a stream
Who go a-Maying,
“They might have loved us,”—and we seem
Like foolish children down a stream
Who go a-Maying,
When winter's cold and ice are there,
And home is near, and warm, and fair.
Ah, me! how foolish, yet how rare,
This yearning spirit!
And home is near, and warm, and fair.
Ah, me! how foolish, yet how rare,
This yearning spirit!
But, have you never thought it might
Be but a gift of second sight?
A promise of that dear delight
We shall inherit,
Be but a gift of second sight?
A promise of that dear delight
We shall inherit,
When this poor troubled life is done,
And in some other life begun,
We see their faces, one by one,
Not far, but nearly.
And in some other life begun,
We see their faces, one by one,
Not far, but nearly.
547
And they do love us, and the whole
Comes true, as happy, soul to soul,
We journey while the ages roll,
And love them dearly,
Comes true, as happy, soul to soul,
We journey while the ages roll,
And love them dearly,
As we did dream we should when here
We met them first. Ah! now how clear
It shines down from that other sphere,
That gleaming portal
We met them first. Ah! now how clear
It shines down from that other sphere,
That gleaming portal
Of death and life, the happy thought,
It was not, was not all for naught
But the faint echo, vaguely caught,
Of life immortal.
It was not, was not all for naught
But the faint echo, vaguely caught,
Of life immortal.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |