C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Alice Meynell (1847–1922)

THERE’S a feast undated yet:

Both our true lives hold it fast,—

The first day we ever met.

What a great day came and passed!—

Unknown then, but known at last.

And we met: You knew not me,

Mistress of your joys and fears;

Held my hand that held the key

Of the treasure of your years,

Of the fountain of your tears.

For you knew not it was I,

And I knew not it was you.

We have learnt, as days went by:

But a flower struck root and grew

Underground, and no one knew.

Day of days! Unmarked it rose,

In whose hours we were to meet;

And forgotten passed. Who knows,

Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,

At the coming of your feet?

One mere day, we thought; the measure

Of such days the year fulfills.

Now, how dearly would we treasure

Something from its fields, its rills

And its memorable hills;—

But one leaf of oak or lime,

Or one blossom from its bowers,

No one gathered at the time.

Oh, to keep that day of ours

By one relic of its flowers!