Louise Townsend Nicholl

WE knew a timeless place beside three trees,

Where lights across an arching bridge were set;

And, dark against the sky, was flung a frieze

Of human joy in shifting silhouette.

Figures of children—swift, and lovers—slow,

Made us a pageant as they crossed the hill.

We called it “being dead,” and watched them go,

Remembering when we were living still.

Now you have died, and found those timeless nights;

Ours was a dream which you have made come true.

Three trees are there, a hill, a bridge of lights:

I know, I know—I have been dead with you!

I shall put off my grief, my sick despair,

Since only joy is silhouetted there.