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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

His Share and Mine

By Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt (1836–1919)

HE went from me so softly and so soon.

His sweet hands rest at morning and at noon;

The only task God gave them was to hold

A few faint rose-buds—and be white and cold.

His share of flowers he took with him away;

No more will blossom here so fair as they.

His share of thorns he left—and if they tear

My hands instead of his, I do not care.

His sweet eyes were so clear and lovely, but

To look into the world’s wild light and shut:

Down in the dust they have their share of sleep;

Their share of tears is left for me to weep.

His sweet mouth had its share of kisses—Oh!

What love, what anguish, will he ever know?

Its share of thirst and murmuring and moan

And cries unsatisfied shall be my own.

He had his share of Summer. Bird and dew

Were here with him—with him they vanished too.

His share of dying leaves and rains and frost

I take, with every dreary thing he lost.

The phantom of the cloud he did not see

Forevermore shall overshadow me.

He, in return, with small, still, snowy feet

Touched the Dim Path and made its Twilight sweet.