Nay, but I fancy somehow, year by year
The hard road waxing easier to my feet;
Nay, but I fancy as the season's fleet
I shall grow ever dearer to my dear.
Hope is so strong that it has conquered fear;
Love follows, crowned and glad for fear's defeat.
Down the long future I behold us, sweet,
Pass, and grow ever dearer and more near,
Pass and go onward into the mild land
Where the blond harvests slumber all the noon,
And the pale sky bends downward to the sea;
Pass, and go forward, ever hand in hand,
Till all the plain be quickened with the moon,
And the lit windows beckon o'er the lea.
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