Strangers words. Not mine.


“A Stranger came – a Stranger met –

They passed, and for aye-

Yet one, perchance, remember yet

Those moments passed away.

They woke a violin sweet and vain,

He never thought to dream again.

 

And you lone cloud, whose passing shade

Floats on the summer wind –

Soon from the sun-lit heaven shall fade,

And leave no trace behind –

Thus, in the hour that bade them part,

His memory vanished from her heart.

 

So be it still – the days are past

Of reckless, wild desire,

Yet must be cherish to the last,

and love – what all admire –

And bear, through sunshine and through storm,

That gentle heart, and lovely form.”

 

– Henry Howard Brownell

 

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