I shall tread, another year, Ways I walked with Grief, Past the dry, ungarnered ear And the brittle leaf. I shall stand, a year apart, Wondering, and shy, Thinking, "Here she broke her heart; Here she pled to die." I shall hear the pheasants call, And the raucous geese; Down these ways, another Fall, I shall walk with Peace. But the pretty path I trod Hand-in-hand with Love- Underfoot, the nascent sod, Brave young boughs above, And the stripes of ribbon grass By the curling way- I shall never dare to pass To my dying day. Dorothy Parker