FOR ***

NO eyes shall see the poems that I write

For you; not even yours; but after long

Forgetful years have passed on our delight

Some hand may chance upon a dusty song

Of those fond days when every spoken word

Was sweet, and all the fleeting things unspoken

Yet sweeter, and the music half unheard

Murmured through forests as a charm unbroken.

It is the plain and ordinary page

Of two who loved, sole-spirited and clear.

Will you, O stranger of another age,

Not grant a human and compassionate tear

To us, who each the other held so dear?

A single tear fraternal, sadly shed,

Since that which was so living, is so dead.