English poem
The Cloud
by Marian Longfellow (1849–1924)
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!