To me the day is the event,
The symbol the remembered thing:
The path she trod, the twig she bent,
The very clouds that came and went,
After long years are lingering.
No fond detail but aids to save
The loved one from Oblivion's grave.

Upon what petty pivots rest
The fate of nations and of men!
A frown, an accident, a jest,
A casual turn to East or West,
And War may stalk the earth again!
If each last consequence we saw
Our slightest choice were made with awe.

Trace History to its hidden source
'Tis made of trifles, each to each.
The stream that gathers fearful force
May plough an unconsidered course,
And show at some neglected breach,
In the rough play of Nature's laws,
Occasion mightier than Cause.

Oh, could she now come back to me
And say the welcome word I craved
The spot on which she stood might be
The fulcrum of eternity
And all the future might be saved!
Who knows if the closing of that gate
Was willed by her or willed by Fate?