First Love, Long After
by Marguerite Alvis Venable
When dimly through the aisles of dusty years,
I hear your voice, or see you turn your head,
My pulse retains its even throb, my blood
Scarce quickens pace. My love for you is dead.
And yet if I should meet you face to face
Tomorrow, and I felt as gay as free,
A tide of something cold as old despair
And wild as grief would near to drowning me.