Why was I moved to write
To him the very night
That he, unknown to me,
Upon his deathbed lay
With eyes that should not see
Another break of day—

Eyes that should never read
The long light-hearted screed
That rippled from my pen?
Why should I write to him
Whose sight was even then
With the last darkness dim?

For I had never heard
From him a single word
For years, nor even thought
If he were ill or well:
And when I wrote I'd naught
That mattered much to tell.

Did the same memory
That moment moving me
To take my pen and write,
Light-hearted as a boy,
Move him on that last night
To think of me with joy?

Did his lost youth return
In one clear thought, and burn
His being with the glow
Of old enraptured hours
When, plunging through deep snow,
We faced the raking showers?

Did death to him seem just
A wilder frolic gust
That caught his breath, and deep
In dazzling drowsy white
Of downy drifts did sleep
Steal over him that night?

But time will never tell
Whether some fateful spell
Or only idle whim.
Moved me to write a screed
Of chaffing words to him
That he would never read.