Dear boy, ten summers--ten swift summers now
Have come and gone since last I said good-bye,
Ten idle, wasted summers gone, and how
I hardly know, so swift the seasons fly:
So swift the seasons come, so swift they go,
That scare it seems one brief, one little day,
Since boyish voices bid us come and play:
And little girls did seem to lure us so.
O Robert!--Robert!--If in Paradise
These idle words of mine can penetrate,
Thou knowest, then, that tears have wet mine eyes,
Thou knowest that I felt thy ruthless fate;
And yet, dear boy, I sometimes feel that thou
Art happier there than I who mourn thee now.