To reach the hill, men weary climb, and near the stranger’s home;
Some other hand than mine must now thy injuries repair,
That brilliant surface plated once must be another’s care.
The morning sun shall dawn again—but never more with thee,
Shall I paddle o’er the country roads where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on my path, and trudging o’er the plain,
With slackened speed and slower pace shall think of thee again.
Only in sleep shall I behold that nick’ling beaming bright
Only in sleep shall tread again that step so firm and light;
And when I turn my dreaming arms to slack or check my speed,