But don’t you know it, my dear,

   Don’t you know it,

That this day of the year

(What rainbow-rays embow it!)

We met, strangers confessed,

   But parted—blest?

Though at this query, my dear,

   There in your frame

Unmoved you still appear,

You must be thinking the same,

But keep that look demure

   Just to allure.

And now at length a trace

   I surely vision

Upon that wistful face

Of old-time recognition,

Smiling forth, “Yes, as you say,

   It is the day.”

For this one phase of you

   Now left on earth

This great date must endue

With pulsings of rebirth?—

I see them vitalize

   Those two deep eyes!

But if this face I con

   Does not declare

Consciousness living on

Still in it, little I care

To live myself, my dear,

   Lone-labouring here!

Spring 1913.