That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,— Though why take count of every wind that blows! ’T was plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill That year,—the self-same year I met with Rose. Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land, Slipped from my hold—thus plenty comes and goes. One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand (Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose. There was a war, I think; some rumor, too, Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows; Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view, Throve, spite of all; but I,—I met with Rose. That year my white-faced Alma pined and died: Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,—who knows? Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side, Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose. Was there no more? Yes, that year life began: All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,— All after-life compressed within the span Of that one year,—the year I met with Rose!
The World Well Lost
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