THE WORLD WELL LOST
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.
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