“Ah, long-delayed to-morrow! Hearts that beatMeasure the length of every moment gone.Ever the suns rise tardily or fleetAnd light the letters on a churchyard stone.—And still I say, ‘To-morrow we shall meet!’”
“May Probyn,” the librarian identified. “Too few people know her. A wonderful poem!”
Silence fell again, folding us and our thoughts in its kindly refuge. Rising, I crossed to the window and drew the curtain aside. A surging wind had swept the sky clear, all but one bank of low-lurking, western cloud shot through with naming crimson. In that luminous setting the ancient house across Our Square, grim and bleak no longer to my eyes, gleamed, through eyes again come to life, with an inconceivable glory. Behind me in the shadow, the measured voice of the witness to life and death repeated once more the message of imperishable hope:
“And still I say, ‘To-morrow we shall meet.’”