Feast and song and a long, long sleep;—

And which of us dreamed at the drama's close

That the unforgetful years would keep

Our sin and their vengeance laid away

As a gift to this bitter day?

Now you are white as the mountain snow,

White as the hand that I fold you in,

And none but the angels of God may know

That either has once been stained with sin;

It was blood and wine in the old, old years,

But now it is only tears.

And so at the end of our several ways

We have met once more, and the truth is clear

That our heart's own blood no surer pays

For our sin in the past than atonement here;

But the end has come as God knows best:

Now we shall be at rest.

[63]

[63]

THE POET SHEPHERD.

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