Who has stood here in our place before?

Who has perceived the cool autumnal breeze?

Who has heard the wind’s gentle roar?

Who has traipsed this trail with ease?

Whose feet have marred the grass and dirt?

Whose fingers stroked the satin water?

Whose hands slowly became inert?

Whose mind slowed as the air turned hotter?

They’ve come here for peace.

They’ve sat here on the stone

whose wonders never cease.

They’ve sat here as we’ve grown.

They, the ones we’ve grown to seek

for love and hope and wisdom;

they manifest our little creek,

our infinitesimal kingdom.

And who, after we too leave,

shall take our places by and by?

Will they be friends here to grieve?

Shall they stay to cry?

There are tears a plenty;

they all compose our rill.

Not as though they flow intently,

no, they are at times still.

As we lay here, my sweet,

we feed into affection.

We do not expect to greet

a sorrowful apparition.

We may love, but ne’er

did anyone before we.

Solitude for the sorrower

was this plateau’s duty.

Affliction was the furlough;

alas, here we lay now, together,

arm in arm in the warming meadow

our affection bequeathed forever.