  IF I should go to you in that old place. (God knows, dear heart, we trod it smooth and straight!) And lifting up to yours a tear-worn face, Should whisper, “Darling, it is not too late, For life and love can soon unbar the gate,” You would say “No,” e’en though your lips were dumb— Fear not: I shall not come. If you should gather up the poor, pale shreds Of what is left and bring them here to me, Saying, “Fate tangled. Let us mend the threads And weave a web more beautiful to see,” All weeping, I would cry, “It may not be.” And I would cast it by with hands all numb— Nay, Sweet; you will not come. We each have learned the lesson rapt apart, The better task Fate set us ere the noon. The storms of Life have beat across my heart And scourged its madden’d throbbing into tune. Who would have looked for moth and rust so soon? Nay, Patience, Sweet! God will bend down some day And lift your hand to wipe my tears away. Margaret Houston. |
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