Philip James Bailey

22 April 1816 - 6 September 1902 / England

A Mystery

Friend! many a year hath passed
Since last I clasped thine hand--
It may be we shall meet no more
Till in the Heavenly land;
Still grief can ne'er erase, nor joy
Eclipse, the bliss hath been;
And us one ceaseless, burning thought
Still oscillates between.

And yet another name there is,--
The fates ask always three--
With thine, dear friend, and mine conjoined,
In endless unity;
Yet all are severed, as by death,
At Destiny's command;
And though a thousand read these lines
But twain shall understand.
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