Her Last Letter.
’Tis but a line, a hurried scrawl,1
And little seem the words to say,2
Yet hold me in reproachful thrall :3
“ You quarrelled with me yesterday ;4
To-morrow you’ll be sad.”5
Ay, “ you’ll be sad,” the words are few,6
And yet they pierce my soul with pain ;7
Ay, ‘ you’ll be sad,” the words are true
;8
They haunt me with prophetic strain :9
“ To-morrow you’ll be sad.”10
We quarrelled, and for what ? a word,11
A foolish speech that jarred the ear,12
And thus in wrath our pulses stirr’d ;13
Then came her letter : “ Dear, my dear,14
To-morrow you’ll be sad.”15
Few words ! half mirth, and half regret,16
The last her hand should ever write—17
Sad words ! learned long ago, and yet18
Fresh with new pain to ear and sight :19
“ To-morrow you’ll be sad !”20