Discover more from Dead Poets Daily
Forty springs back, I recall, We met at this phase of the Maytime: We might have clung close through all, But we parted when died that daytime. We parted with smallest regret; Perhaps should have cared but slightly, Just then, if we never had met: Strange, strange that we lived so lightly! Had we mused a little space At that critical date in the Maytime, One life had been ours, one place, Perhaps, till our long cold daytime. – This is a bitter thing For thee, O man: what ails it? The tide of chance may bring Its offer; but nought avails it!