If I, who loathe my remnant of sad days,
Could make her hear who lies beneath the sod,
Could call her spirit from the starry-ways,
Could pluck her from the shielding Arms of God.

Could let her breathe again the April wind,
Or hear the patt'ring of soft summer rain,
Should call her back to all she left behind . . .
Oh, would her coming give my heart more pain?

Oh, would her eyes scan all the ambered South,
And sweep, tear-filled, the dark hill-shadowing sea,
And nothing else? Oh, would she kiss my mouth?
Oh, God! oh God! Would she remember me?