Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/43

THE WORLD WELL LOST 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!

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