Emily Jane Pfeiffer
Dear day, of all the high-days of the year
Most blest, being that which mostly brings release
From all such thoughts as are the foes to peace,—
How have I schooled my heart to hold thee clear
Of sorrow for the dead, however dear,
How made vain longings and regrets to cease,
And leave their places to the sweet increase
Of love that lives to bless us now, and here.
Yet must I lose thee with all else, in vain
My strivings; like a child who stands before
A lighted window in the cold and rain
Eying the cates within, thought hungers o'er
Dear faces in bright homes which not again
May lend their light to mine for evermore.