Wrestled, what time the passionate spring-winds blow;
And paced scorch’d stones in summer. They are dead.
The sorrow of their souls to them did seem
As real as mine to me, as permanent.
To-day—it is the shadow of a dream,
The half-forgotten breath of breezes spent.
So shall another soothe his woe supreme—
No more he comes, who this way came and went.
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
1866-1918