Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.
Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.
Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?
Memory and true love," he whispered, "are perishing,
With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth."
"Ah, no!" I said, "no! Since we grieve for our grief again,
Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!
And memory may wake, like my Shadow-of-a-Leaf again,
Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave."
So we sang it together—that long-forgot litany:—