Such a little thing--a letter,
Yet so much it may contain:
Written thoughts and mute expressions
Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.
When our hearts are sad at parting,
Comes a gleam of comfort bright,
In the mutual promise given:
"We will not forget to write."
Plans and doings of the absent;
Scraps of news we like to hear,
All remind us, e'en though distant,
Kind remembrance keeps us near.
Yet sometimes a single letter
Turns the sunshine into shade;
Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,
Blights our hopes and makes them fade.
Messengers of joy or sorrow,
Life or death, success, despair,
Bearers of affection's wishes,
Greetings kind or loving prayer.
Prayer or greeting, were we present,
Would be felt, but half unsaid;
We can write--because our letters--
Not our faces--will be read?
Who has not some treasured letters,
Fragments choice of other's lives;
Relics, some, of friends departed,
Friends whose memory still survives?
Touched by neither time nor distance,
Will their words unspoken last?
Voiceless whispers of the present,
Silent echoes of the past!