A Cloud scarce larger than a feather
Uprose in Love's bright sky one day,
But, ah, it grew to stormy weather
And shrouded all the sun's bright ray!
A little cloud! but ah, the sorrow
That springs from bitter words that jar;
How deep the pain from which we borrow,—
How strong the wall that forms the bar!
We may in after-hours grow tender
And strive to read our lives aright,
But if to Love its due we render,
We know Life's thread, at best, is slight!
What if the look, the word, but spoken,
Had been “the last” we ever met?
Ah! Life had been too short, too broken,
Its pang forever to forget!