Where shall we meet who parted long ago?
⁠The frosty stars were twinkling in the sky,
The moorland lay before us white with snow,
⁠The north wind smote our faces rushing by.
Where shall we meet? On such a moorland lone?
⁠In crowded city street, or country lane?
On sandy beach-walk, while the sea makes moan?
⁠In quiet chamber? Shall we meet again
On any spot of old familiar ground,
⁠Our childish haunts? or in a far-off land?
Ah me! what if on earth no spot be found
⁠For longing eyes to meet, and clasping hand?
What then? — If angry fate reunion bars,
⁠A better meeting waits beyond the stars.

When shall we meet who parted in the night?
⁠At some calm dawning, or in noontide heat?
To-day? to-morrow? or will years take flight
⁠Before our yearning hearts find welcome sweet?
When shall we meet? While summer roses lie
⁠Beside our path, and rustle overhead?
Or later, when a leaden winter sky
⁠Looks coldly on the empty garden-bed?
While youthful faith and hopefulness are ours?
⁠Or only when our hair is growing gray?
Ah me! we may have done with earthly hours
⁠Before it comes to us, that happy day!
What then? — Let life's lone path be humbly trod,
⁠And where or when we meet, we leave to God.

When the first ripe blush of youth has vanished,
⁠With its changing hue of hopes and fears;
When all memories of the past seem banished,
⁠By the shadow of succeeding years:

When the loving heart, becoming colder,
⁠Loses much of wonted faith and trust;
When, too, sorrow day by day grown older,
⁠Half forgot lies trodden in the dust, —

How at such time will some little token,
⁠Drawn by chance from some long-forgotten nook —
Mayhap but a flower all crushed and broken
⁠Lying hid in some once-cherished book —
 
Stir again the icy heart to sadness,
⁠Rouse once more the memories of the past,
Bringing mingled thoughts of grief and gladness,
⁠Whispering of the haven found at last.

Till at length from past to present waking,
⁠Once again peeps forth a hopeful beam;
As full oft the sun through dull clouds breaking
⁠Tints the autumn lands with ruddy gleam.

When death with no unwelcome touch
⁠Shall free my weary sprite,
I would not be lamented much,
⁠Nor yet forgotten quite.

Let art devise no sounding mask
⁠Affliction's voice to aid;
The softest sigh is all I ask
⁠To soothe my wistful shade.
 
The tribute of a silent tear
⁠Would satisfy the claim
Of one who found few friendships here,
⁠And never dreamt of fame.

No marble mound to load my breast
⁠Should I arise to sue,
Would Love his constancy attest
⁠With a fresh flower or two.

While Memory, from her grassy seat,
⁠Might now and then incline
O'er the mute rhymster to repeat
⁠A verse of his, — a line.

With such memorials to endear
⁠Some lone, sepulchral spot,
I should not wake too sad a tear,
⁠Nor yet be quite forgot.

The clustering vines spring up through the clear air;
They grow twice over; once, high up and green,
And once deep down in the blue lake, between
The purple mountains, — both alike so fair,
One scarce can tell the sunshine from the glare.
Here, the light ripples through a leafy screen,
There, it flows on all golden and serene,
In both the dark-eyed children stand and stare;
While up and down their weary parents pace
Those stony ways, with long, deep baskets slung
Over their shoulders; yet with easy grace
They bear their burdens, whether old or young;
For here they play at work — in many a place
They work at . play — for those, no song be sung.