Poem by Thomas MacDonagh

After a Year

After a year of love
Death of love in a day;
And I who ever strove
To hold love in sure life
Now let it pass away
With no grief and no strife.

Pass -- but it holds me yet;
Love, it would seem, may die;
But we can not forget
And can not be the same,
As lowly or as high,
As once, before this came.

Never as in old days
Can I again stoop low;
Never, now fallen, raise
Spirit and heart above
To where once life did show
The lone soul of my love.

None would the service ask
That she from love requires,
Making it not a task
But a high sacrament
Of all love's dear desires
And all life's grave intent.

And if she asked it not?--
Should I have loved her then?--
Such love was our one lot
And our true destiny.
Shall I find truth again?--
None could have known but she.

And she?-- But it is vain
Her life now to surmise,
Whether of joy or pain,
After this borrowed year.
Memory may bring her sighs,
But will it bring a tear?

What if it brought love back?--
Love? -- Ah! love died to-day--
She knew that our hearts lack
One thing that makes love true.
And I would not gainsay,
Told her I also knew.

And there an end of it--
I, who had never brooked
Such word as all unfit
For our sure love, brooked this--
Into her eyes I looked,
Left her without a kiss. 

1. To a Wise Man
2. Of the Man of My First Play
3. The Philistine
4. In Fever
5. Averil

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