An answer to solve what it is that I miss,

Though I’ve questioned myself more that twenty times over,

There seems no reply to a question like this.

My friends meet me gladly with words kindly spoken,

Salutations of praises and sometimes a kiss,

And looks sent along with a sweet flower token.

I find in my room—there is something I miss.

The blaze up the chimney this evening is talking,

The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune,

A cloud o’er the heavens is leisurely walking,

A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon.

Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober,

But why should I murmur or wonder at this?

The flame of the woodland died out with October,

The birds, too, are gone—there is something I miss.

I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight

I read the home paper a late train has brought,

And into the lives of the absent an insight

I take; do they ever of me have a thought?

How strange the words sound when no answer is given,

Ah! the tone of a friend would to-night insure bliss,

And the faces of loved ones would seem like a heaven

Of angels, alas! there is something I miss.

Will it always be thus? Is this one missing measure

To cripple my verse and sadden my song?

What a joy it is to regain a lost treasure

And in the heart’s casket the setting make strong.

But I have grown weary these figures of trying;

I wonder if others make failures like this?

A smile? Ah, you solved then the truth underlying

This problem, and know what it is that I miss.