There is a mystic borderland that lies Just past the limits of our workday world, And it is peopled with the friends we met And loved a year, a month, a week or day, And parted from with aching hearts, yet knew That through the distance we must loose the hold Of hand with hand, and only clasp the thread Of memory. But still so close we feel this land, So sure we are that these same hearts are true, That when in waking dreams there comes a call That sets the thread of memory aglow, We know that just by stretching out the hand In written word of love, or book, or flower, The waiting hand will clasp our own once more Across the distance, in the same old way. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MORAL WARFARE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THOMAS GRAY by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON SECTION GANG: NIGHT by NORMAN BOLKER ON THE YANGSTE KIANG by BERTON BRALEY THE CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE by BERTON BRALEY A WORD TO THE 'ELECT' by ANNE BRONTE |