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In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight... Not people die but worlds die in them.
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The saddest thing of word or pen, To know the things that might have been.
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Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before. What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
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And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on:—...
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Of all sad words of tongue and pen the saddest are these, what might have been.
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