IT is the years, the empty years, you fear— The years that stretch ahead, bereft, forlorn, Of that one presence that you held so dear! So many months to grieve, in every year, So many days in every month to mourn, So many hours in which to wear the thorn! Ah! yes, it is the endless years you fear! But hearken, mourner! I, who whisper low, Have passed this way; I, too, have grieved—I know! Look not adown the years, but, one by one, Bear each day as it comes; when it is done, Turn to the morrow—to your sad heart say: "Oh, brave heart, bear it just another day!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |