Martha Dickinson Bianchi

Separation

There be many kinds of parting—yes, I know
Some with fond, grieving eyes that overflow,
Some with brave hands that strengthen as they go;
Ah yes, I know—I know.

But there be partings harder still to tell,        
That fall in silence, like an evil spell,
Without one wistful message of farewell;
Ah yes, too hard to tell.

There is no claiming of one sacred kiss,—
One token for the days when life shall miss        
A spirit from the world of vanished bliss;
Ah no—not even this.

There is no rising ere the birds have sung
Their skyward songs, to journey with the sun,—
Nor folded hands to show that life is done;        
Ah no, for life is young.

There are no seas, no mountains rising wide,
No centuries of absence to divide,—
Just soul-space, standing daily side by side;
Ah, wiser to have died.        

Hands still clasp hands, eyes still reflect their own;—
Yet had one over universes flown,
So far each heart hath from the other grown,
Alone were less alone.