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Title: Met
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox [
More Titles by Wilcox]
How odd and strange seems our meeting
Like a grim rendezvous of the dead.
All day I have sat here repeating
The commonplace things that we said.
They sounded so oddly when uttered--
They sound just as odd to me now;
_Was_ it we, or our two ghosts who muttered
Last evening, with simper and bow?
I had grown used to living without you.
In revel and concert and ball,
I had flown from much thinking about you,
And your picture I turned to the wall.
For to call back the dream that was broken,
To fancy your hand on my hair,
To remember the words we had spoken,
Was madness, and gall, and despair.
I knew I could never forget you;
But I wanted to put you away.
And now, just to think how I met you--
It has seemed like a nightmare all day.
We two with our record of passion,
We two who have been as one heart,
To meet in that calm, quiet fashion,
And chat for a moment and part.
We two who remember such blisses
Not heaven itself can eclipse,
We two who had kissed with the kisses
That draw out the soul through the lips,
We two who have known the ideal,
The rare perfect love in its might--
Nay, nay, they were ghosts, and not real,
Who met, and who parted, last night.
They were ghosts, unprepared for the meeting;
'Twas a chance rendezvous of the dead;
And all day I sit here repeating
The odd sounding words that were said.
[The end]
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poem: Met
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