Thrift
IF you had given me the kiss I craved
At our last parting, placed your hand in mine,
Or even for one moment laid your head
To rest upon the heart that ached for you,
I should have faced my fate with stouter soul,
And walked with firmer feet to meet my doom.
It was not much I asked! Not much for you,
So rich in all I lacked, to give or grant,
And I, poor, desolate, and most forlorn,
Should for such grace have blessed you all my days.
Now, neither kiss, nor tender clasping hand,
Nor e'en the gift of your whole self could save
This wand'rer, shipwrecked on the sea of life;
Who, passing by your door, says only this—
"You are no richer, dear, for that day's thrift,
While I am made the poorer for all time."