"But Once" by Marion Harland (1830-1922)

We pass this way but once, dear heart!
Musing beside the birch-log's glow,
The murmur of the mighty mart
Borne to us thru the falling snow,
Our talk is of a buried day;
Between us and the embers red,
Are flickering fantoms, wan and gray,
Sad wraiths of loves and hopes long dead.

We pass this way but once. 'Tho hard
The road we climb in frost and heat,
Thru deep defiles -- and sharp the shard
'Gainst which we dash our hurrying feet,
Our toil and pain leave scanty trace,
A blood-stain on a displaced stone;
Vague lettering on a boulder's face;
Perchance the echo of a moan.

We pass this way but once. The seed
We idly strew, or plant with tears,
Is gone for aye! We may not heed
Its death or growth in future years.
We clutch at gold, and grasp dead leaves,
We sow spring wealth of hopes and cares;
Others will gather in our sheaves,
And, cursing us, will burn our tares.

With your true eyes on mine, dear heart,
As at the margin of the Sea
Which you and me some day must part
Forget all that we would not be.
Tread down the Wrong, live out the Right,
Strong in God's love and love for men;
Then from the hill-top be our flight
We shall not pass this way again!


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