Classic Poem

Sometimes, across these later years
One memory chaste and holy
Drifts back and makes me love my past
For that sweet reason solely;
Not any tide of time or chance
Bears out of sight the old romance.

No love on earth can satisfy
The dream of child or poet;
I who was happy, guessed it not—
I who am sadder, know it,
Yet—O dear days! O sweet belief!
O so well worth all later grief!

And all fair things, too pure for earth,
And therefore briefly given,—
Lent to us for a passing hour
And then recalled to Heaven,
To find their proper place above,—
Bring back that holy, childish love:

A love most like the fragrant snow
Of some fair Mary lily,
Scenting the altar all day long
To die when night comes chilly;
Yet I am glad this heart of mine
Gave growth to blossom so divine.

Ah, yes, I know that now I love
In stronger, deeper fashion;
But womanhood's completest love
Is mixed with tears and passion.
The vision of my morning-tide
Was joy, and nothing else beside:

A dream that could not be fulfilled
By mortal love or lover.
Look not so sad, my own, though we
Its bliss shall not recover,
I am the better worth thy love
For that past vision from above!