  I would not we should meet again— We twain who loved so fond, Although through years and years afar, I wish'd for nought beyond. Yet do I love thee none the less; And aye to me it seems, There's not on earth so fair a thing As thou art in my dreams. All, all hath darkly changed beside, Grown old, or stern, or chill— All, save one hoarded spring-tide gleam, Thy smile that haunts me still! My brow is but the register Of youth's and joy's decline; I would not trace such record too Deep graven upon thine. I would not see how rudely Time Hath dealt with all thy store Of bloom and promise—'tis enough To know the harvest's o'er. I would not that one glance to-day, One glance through clouds and tears, Should mar the image in my soul That love hath shrined for years. J. D. |
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