  ALL pale the daffodil-tinted sky; The dusky shores that ’neath it lie Are set like an etching against the color, As the great steamship plunges by. There is the road I used to know, There are the windows still aglow, As when in those old days of welcome They lit the visitants to and fro. There are the gates I used to pass, The belts of flowers, the shaven grass, The casements behind which well-known faces Smiled softly at me through the glass. No other eye than mine could see If that dim shape be house or tree; The true heart hath its inner vision, It is all clear as day to me. I see the forms so long unseen, Stately in age, of reverend mien, Gay youth, and flower-like baby faces, And manhood’s aspect grave and keen. And, beautiful beyond compare, Mysteriously, strangely fair, Like some clear star high-hung in heaven And sweet as summer roses are,— One dear face hovers o’er the spot, Which knew her once and knows her not; And still from out the deathly shadows, Looks forth, beloved and unforgot. All vain are beauty, worth, and wit, The hours come, the hours flit; Time’s wheel inexorably turneth, And carries all our hopes with it. It is life’s common end and way; Nothing abides and naught may stay; And strangers in the kinsmen’s places Front us with alien eyes to-day. If Grief were not Joy’s earthly stem, And Time Eternity’s brief hem, I could not bear it to sit in shadow And watch that shore—remembering them! |
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