Poetry Archives

I shall tread, another year,
  Ways I walked with Grief,
Past the dry, ungarnered ear
  And the brittle leaf.

I shall stand, a year apart,
  Wondering, and shy,
Thinking, “Here she broke her heart;
 Here she pled to die.”

I shall hear the pheasants call,
  And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
  I shall walk with Peace.

But the pretty path I trod
  Hand-in-hand with Love—
Underfoot, the nascent sod,
  Brave young boughs above,

And the stripes of ribbon grass
  By the curling way—
I shall never dare to pass
  To my dying day.