Classic Poem

He had so little of her, he who yet
Had always loved her—only life's arrears,
Only the months, never the longed-for years!
For from the promises his love had met
She had turned away, and their two roads were set
More widely separate than the hemispheres.
At last she came to him, freed of her tears,
Bringing the fruit of her too long regret.

See, he is walking to her mound today,
In the old graveyard hushed and myrtle-aisled,
Where now for her the years are all the same.
Between the crowding slabs he makes his way,
Thoughtful, and leading by the hand a child
Who should have borne his features and his name.