A moment face to face they stood,
⁠While soul met soul in honest eyes
That trembling glowed through unshed tears,
⁠Born of a love that never dies.

They met to speak the saddest word
⁠That e'er on human lips can dwell:
But, O, the mockery to dream
⁠That such as these could take farewell!

For as two roseate clouds unite,
⁠In wake of the departed sun,
Their kindred essence pure and sweet,
⁠These twain had softly merged in one.

They might be severed pole from pole,
⁠Might live through all the years apart;
What mattered time and space to them
⁠Whose home was in each other's heart?

He craved a tress of that fine gold
⁠Whose wavy wreaths her forehead graced;
Bending to grant the boon, he clasped
⁠A zone of pearl about her waist.

A moment more, and he was gone
⁠From sight, nought else. High heart and mind,
Stronghold of tenderness and truth,
⁠Defied the hour, and stayed behind!

The seasons rolled, and ne'er again
⁠Thus face to face 'twas theirs to stand;
Yet heart to heart they walked the world
⁠On to the goal, the silent land.

O gift of gifts! a noble soul
⁠That wraps our own in full embrace,
Till all mean things in love's great sea
⁠Are lost, and self hath no more place.

'Tis gone, with its joys and sorrows;
⁠Its sunshine and storms of rain:
Look not away in the distance,
⁠On relics of grief and pain;
Look up, dear friends, instead:
Let the dead year bury its dead!

What if our pride have suffered?
⁠What if the hour of need
Have shown that the friend we trusted
⁠Was worse than a broken reed?
Look up, though our hearts have bled:
Let the dead year bury its dead.

Let us count the abundant mercies
⁠Our one great Friend has sent;
The days of our light and darkness —
⁠All gifts of one sweet intent.
No matter the tears we shed:
Let the dead year bury its dead.

Ah, youth has been taught stern lessons,
⁠And we of maturer years
Have learned a yet keener knowledge
⁠Of life's vain hopes and fears.
How surely God's hand hath led!
Let the dead year bury its dead.

And the new-born year shall find us
⁠Courageous, alert and strong;
Girt up for the strife before us,
⁠Though sharp the trial and long.
On, on, with a firmer tread,
While the dead year buries its dead.

Some day, my child, in poet's tenderest strain,
⁠You may perchance be heard divinely singing;
The attar of an ecstasy or pain,
⁠In passioned sweetness flinging;
⁠⁠⁠⁠Some day.

Some day, it may be, hot wild tears will flow
⁠And show how tempests tear the rose to blowing;
And what you sighed in radiant spring to know,
⁠Will pierce your heart with knowing;
⁠⁠⁠⁠Some day.

Some day, oh, child! as one who fain would rest,
⁠You may await death's peaceful tide inflowing,
And float, with heavenly lilies on your breast,
⁠To heavenly lilies growing.
⁠⁠⁠⁠Some day.

Dora seated at the play
⁠Weeps to see the hero perish, —
Hero of a Dresden day,
⁠Fit for china nymphs to cherish;
O that Dora's heart would be
Half so soft and warm for me!

When the flaring lights are out
⁠His heroic deeds are over,
Gone his splendid strut and shout,
⁠Gone his raptures of a lover,
While my humdrum heart you'd find
True, though out of sight and mind.