But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.