The Mystery

To wake some morning — just a common day
Of rain or sun, bird-note or budded rose,
Like any other day — and at its close
To be from all I knew a life away,
How wondrous strange ’t would be! No more to play
With children’s voices; and when winter goes,
To wait no spring’s return; when glorious glows
The sunset, not to watch till night is gray.
O stranger far than dreams! The crowded street,
Scorched in the noon-tide, laughter, suppliant hands,
Man’s joy in work, man’s pain, unchanged abide;
While I, who thought that ever eager feet
Still in old paths would lead me through known lands,
Sudden, surprised, fare out to the untried.