Paths

I shall tread, another year,

     Ways I walked with Grief,

Past the dry, ungarnered ear

     And the brittle leaf.

I shall stand, a year apart,

     Wondering, and shy,

Thinking, “Here she broke her heart;

     Here she pled to die.”

I shall hear the pheasants call,

     And the raucous geese;

Down these ways, another Fall,

     I shall walk with Peace.

But the pretty path I trod

     Hand-in-hand with Love,—

Underfoot, the nascent sod,

     Brave young boughs above,

And the stripes of ribbon grass

     By the curling way—

I shall never dare to pass

     To my dying day.