Poem by Edmund Clarence Stedman

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.

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!

1. Country Sleighing
2. Round the Old Board
3. The Heart of New England
4. Gifford
5. Pan in Wall Street

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