Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
Made fair by one another for a while.
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace,
The long road then, unlit by your faint smile.
February 3, 1863
Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
Oh, I'll remember! but...each crawling day
Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile
Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.
Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere,
The desert edge, last of the lands we know,
Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,
In which I'll find you waiting, and we'll go
Together, hand in hand again, out there,
Into the waste we know not, into the night?