  I do not ever remember having seen Rosy Miller; I never met her; Yet lose her I never can. One night at dusk she came down a hill with me, And the stars glowed And all the college buildings were laced with window lights, And beyond them were the dark hills. It was the speech of a friend that made her live for me— She was living then—, Rosy Miller, who gave and gave, Who, a child still, had learned the whole meaning of life, Who asked nothing, Who never held a hand out mendicant to others. That was three years ago, that hour at dusk, And now they say she is dead. But that is a mistake: Even for me who never knew her she still lives. |
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