To-day the winter woods are wet,
And chill with airs that miss the sun
The autumn of the year is done,
Its leaves all fallen, its flower-stars set,
Its frosty hours begun.

Should last year's gold narcissus yearn
For next year's roses, oh! how vain!
No brief dead blossoms rise again,
But each sweet little life in turn
Must shoot and bloom and wane.

Dear, had the years that slip so fast,
Brought you too soon, or me too late,
How had we gnashed our teeth at fate,
And wandered to our grave at last,
Forlorn, disconsolate!

Surely, before the stars were sure,
Before the moon was fixed in heaven,
Your unborn soul to mine was given,
Your clean white spirit, rare and pure,
For me was shaped and shriven.

Ah! surely no time ever was
When we were not; and our souls' light
Made those cold spaces infinite
That lie between the years like glass,
Seen only in God's sight!

Howe'er it be, my one desire,
If chance hath brought us face to face,
Or if the scheme of things found place
To store our twin hearts' light and fire
In strange foreseeing grace,—

Howe'er it be, for us at least
The woodland-pathways are not dark,
New lights are on the boughs and bark,
And in the sunless rainshot east
We hear a mounting lark!