If there were in my kalendar
   No Emma, Florence, Mary,
What would be my existence now -
   A hermit's?—wanderer's weary? -
        How should I live, and how
        Near would be death, or far?

Could it have been that other eyes
   Might have uplit my highway?
That fond, sad, retrospective sight
   Would catch from this dim byway
        Prized figures different quite
        From those that now arise?

With how strange aspect would there creep
   The dawn, the night, the daytime,
If memory were not what it is
   In song-time, toil, or pray-time. -
        O were it else than this,
        I'd pass to pulseless sleep!