THE WORLD WELL LOST
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!
1883
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