Parleying

I HOLD a shadow’s cold, soft hand,
I look in eyes you cannot see,
And words you cannot understand
Come back, as from a distant land, —
The far-off land of Memory.

Forgive me that I sit apart,
And hold the shadow’s hand in mine.
The past broods darkly in my heart,
And bitter are the tears that start ;
I would not mix them with the wine.

The hour will pass ; the shade will go
To his dark home, and swift forget,
At rest, the daisied turf below,
The sun-warmed hours we used to know,
And the old paths wherein we met.

I am alive ! Why should the dead
With cold hand hold the quick in thrall ?
To his far place the shade has sped, —
Now Life with Life may gayly wed ! . . .
My heart misgives me, after all.