Chapter XVIII

All little facts, the things of no account,
A letter, date, an anniversary,
A word that's spoken as on days long past,
Exalt, on these long evenings, you and me.

We solemnise, we two, these simple things
And count and recount all these gems of ours,
So that what is left of our high selves
May face valiantly these sombre hours.

And we are jealous more than it is meet
Of these poor, gentle, friendly memories
Who seat themselves with us beside the fire
With winter flowers laid across thin knees.

And the bread of happiness which once
We did partake of, now they sit and eat;
The bread on which our love has fed so long
That now it finds the very crumbs are sweet.