WHAT shall I do to keep your day,
My darling, dead for many a year?
I could not, if I would, forget
It is your day; and yet, and yet—
It is so hard to find a way
To keep it, now you are not here.
I cannot add the lightest thing
To the full sum of happiness
Which now is yours; nor dare I try
To frame a wish for you, since I
Am blind to know, as weak to bring,
All impotent to aid or bless.
And yet it is your day, and so,
Unlike all other days, one bead
Of gold in the long rosary
Of dull beads little worth to me.
And I must keep it bright, and show
That what is yours is dear indeed.
How shall I keep it here alone?—
With prayers in which your name is set;
With smiles, not tears; and sun, not rain;
With memories sweeter far than pain,
With tender backward glances thrown,
And far on-lookings, clearer yet.
The gift I would have given to you,
And which you cannot need or take,
Shall still be given; and it shall be
A secret between you and me,—
A sweet thought, every birthday new,
That it is given for your sake.
And so your day, yours safely still,
Shall come and go with ebbing time,—
The day of all the year most sweet,—
Until the years so slow, so fleet,
Shall bring me, as in time they will,
To where all days are yours and mine.