To Robert Meaker

ear boy, ten summers—ten swift summers now Have come and gone since last I said good-bye, Ten idle, wasted summers gone, and how I hardly know, so swift the seasons fly: So swift the seasons come, so swift they go, That scare it seems one brief, one little day, Since boyish voices bid us come and play: And little girls did seem to lure us so. O Robert!—Robert!—If in Paradise These idle words of mine can penetrate, Thou knowest, then, that tears have wet mine eyes, Thou knowest that I felt thy ruthless fate; And yet, dear boy, I sometimes feel that thou Art happier there than I who mourn thee now.