So Little

'TIS little we can look for now;The summer years are past;The air is thick with coming snow,And dead leaves, falling fast.A lonelier sound is in the wind,For withered roses left behind.

There was an Indian summer, sweetWith blossoms, faint and few,When fruits lay ripened at our feet;But that has faded, too.Its joy was but the after-glowOf sunsets crimsoned long ago.

And yet we never plucked the flowersThat budded in our dreams:Even at the best, this world of oursIs other than it seems.A generous world indeed it is,—Most generous in its promises,

And with a golden promise still,It lures us travellers onTo death's white steep, the wintry hillUp which our friends have gone,And vanished from our mortal sight,—Thank God! into no starless night.

Faint music from beyond that steep;—A rose-breath, far and rare:—So little can we guess!—but deepHeart's faith is rooted there.So little,—and yet so much moreThan we have hoped or dreamed before!