That vanishes as my footsteps pass.
Little it matters, now or here,
Little, hereafter, how shall end
The story of weary year on year,
If the desolate heart lack feast and friend, -
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Feast of love and friend to keep
For ever thro' cycles of bliss or pain, -
If the lips be white, and the eyes that weep
Blossom never in smiles again.
I have thought, if I to the world were dead,
Yet living and loving otherwhere,
And the words o' the past could be unsaid,
Life would be better, love more fair, -
Life untroubled, purer than this,
Love undoubted, than yours more dear,
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The Chapel Service.
