Shadows

Harriet Monroe 1860 – 1936

What is most near?

Ah, sweet dead year-

Thy fallen leaf

And gathered sheaf,

The presence that is fled,

The vows that once were said-

These are most near.

Swift speeds away

Rose-crowned To-day.

So far, so far

Her light feet are!

I look and see thy face

Haunting the upland place,

Dear Yesterday.

The blooming flowers,

The sunny hours-

These cannot rest,

These are half blest.

But thou forevermore

Art mine, love, as of yore,

And time is ours.