Classic Poem

A summer night, and late,
In the full splendor of a harvest moon,
They stood at the garden gate —
Two, singing the old, old tune!
They sang it low,
With voices falling oft to whispers sweet —
The notes all know.

Ah, life — mere life — was sweet
To those two, leaning on the garden gate!
There did their two roads meet,
Thenceforth out one — one hope, one fate.
No shadow lies
Amid the moonbeams on her golden hair,
Nor in her lifted eyes.

Sweet love and trust!
So fresh, so beautiful when life is young,
So often crushed!
How sped the low, sweet song on that night sung?
Swift flew the years,
Bringing life's burdens on their pauseless wings.
Its smiles and tears.

But the same love, through all,
Burned on in steady trust, in fadeless ray.
Now crept along the wall
Shadows that told the waning of the day.
Harvests had come and gone,
One after one, in cycles ever new —
Old age crept on.

Once more, in the summer weather,
They leaned upon the same old garden gate —
Leaned, as of old, together —
The harvest moon resplendent, night, and late.
The old eyes met,
As in that other moonlight, long ago —
With sweet tears wet.

" My love, " he faltered,
Laying his hand upon her whitened hair;
The voice was altered,
With little breaks and quavers, here and there —
" My love, 'twas long ago!
I did believe thee loving, pure and sweet,
But now I know .

" My sweet wife, you and I
Have shared much grief, and many precious boons;
But lo, the end is nigh!
We shall not watch through many harvest moons
The pale light quiver;
Pray, darling, that we clasp immortal hands
Beyond the river. "