A Two-Years' Idyll

YES; such it was;Just those two seasons unsought,Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways;Moving, as straws,Hearts quick as ours in those days;Going like wind, too, and rated as noughtSave as the prelude to playsSoon to come—larger, life-fraught:Yes; such it was.

"Nought" it was called,Even by ourselves—that which springsOut of the years for all flesh, first or last,Commonplace, scrawledDully on days that go past.Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wingsEven in hours overcast:Aye, though this best thing of things,"Nought" it was called!

What seems it now?Lost: such beginning was all;Nothing came after: romance straight forsookQuickly somehowLife when we sped from our nook,Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall. . . .—A preface without any book,A trumpet uplipped, but no call;That seems it now.