Robert Burns Wilson (1850–1916)

BECAUSE the way is long, and we may never

Meet face to face this side the shadowed land;

Because—a thousand things!—because the hand

May seek in friendly, but in vain, endeavor

Some dreamed-of clasp; because, though seas may sever

This kindred-seeking dust, there is no strand

Too far for loving thoughts—spread wave or sand,

Forevermore, thought scorneth them forever:—

Therefore lest fate hold by her barrier still,

No kindlier proving, hence, than in the past—

Lest on that unknown bourn there be no meeting,—

For thee, upon the tide of good and ill

Which floods with ceaseless flow this world, I cast

This waif: for thee, brave heart, my soul’s best greeting.