Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Martha GilbertDickinson

1567 Separation

THERE be many kinds of parting—yes, I know

Some with fond, grieving eyes that overflow,

Some with brave hands that strengthen as they go;

Ah yes, I know—I know.

But there be partings harder still to tell,

That fall in silence, like an evil spell,

Without one wistful message of farewell;

Ah yes, too hard to tell.

There is no claiming of one sacred kiss,—

One token for the days when life shall miss

A spirit from the world of vanished bliss;

Ah no—not even this.

There is no rising ere the birds have sung

Their skyward songs, to journey with the sun,—

Nor folded hands to show that life is done;

Ah no, for life is young.

There are no seas, no mountains rising wide,

No centuries of absence to divide,—

Just soul-space, standing daily side by side;

Ah, wiser to have died.

Hands still clasp hands, eyes still reflect their own;—

Yet had one over universes flown,

So far each heart hath from the other grown,

Alone were less alone.