Classic Poem

Sweet wife, no ballad, when our days are o'er,
Shall tell the story of our peace and pain;
One little grave shall hold our common dust,
And feel the fresh'ning of the summer rain.

A few short years, mayhap, our names shall live
In children's voices, or their children's sweet;
Then all shall be as if we had not known
This joy of life which is so strange and fleet.

Yet none the less, so long as life shall last,
We will drink deep of joy's eternal spring;
Ay, live as if this life must be our all, —
As if swift death would sleep eternal bring.

The time is short; the more the reason then
For filling it as full as it can hold
With thrills of beauty, yearnings for the truth,
And joys of love and labor manifold.

Then should it chance, as we would fain believe,
Life's glory waits us in some other sphere,
Its first great joy shall be we did not miss
God's meaning in the glory that is here.