A MOMENT'S gleam, hint of sunnier weather,
Borne from the storm-clouds and the mists of fate;
Dawned, with a tender "Peradventure" hither,
A soft "Perchance it is not yet too late!"
And so a transient omen magnifying,
My soul would fain pass brightened, unto thine;
But to my half-formed thought comes truth replying:
"No life mounts backward from its wan decline."
Would'st thou expect, drear winter, ashen, sober,
To burn with blushes of a spring-tide noon?
Would'st thou expect the hectic-cheeked October
To catch the virginal freshness of young June?
All mortal lives like the year's seasons ever
Pass from their May dawn and rare summer's bloom,
Down to the day when autumn winds dissever
Life's latest sheaves to strew them near a tomb.
And then death looms, that pitiless grim December.
Bringing cold tears, a winding sheet like snow,
Last, a carved stone, which bids the world remember
One of its countless myriads sleeps below.
