One Day
I will tell you when they met:In the limpid days of Spring;Elder boughs were budding yet,Oaken boughs looked wintry still,But primrose and veined violetIn the mossful turf were set,While meeting birds made haste to singAnd build with right good will.
I will tell you when they parted: When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown, 10 Then they parted heavy-hearted; The full rejoicing sun looked down As grand as in the days before; Only they had lost a crown; Only to them those days of yore Could come back nevermore.
When shall they meet? I cannot tell, Indeed, when they shall meet again, Except some day in Paradise: For this they wait, one waits in pain. 20 Beyond the sea of death love lies For ever, yesterday, to-day; Angels shall ask them, ‘Is it well?’ And they shall answer, ‘Yea.’