The grey gaunt days dividing us in twain

Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb,

But they are gone; and now I would detain

The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time,

And live in close expectance never closed

In change for far expectance closed at last,

So harshly has expectance been imposed

On my long need while these slow blank months passed.

And knowing that what is now about to be

Will all have been in O, so short a space!

I read beyond it my despondency

When more dividing months shall take its place,

Thereby denying to this hour of grace

A full-up measure of felicity.

1871.