Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
571. The World Well Lost
By Edmund Clarence Stedman
THAT year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,—
  Though why take count of every wind that blows!
’T was plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill
  That year,—the self-same year I met with Rose.
Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land,        5
  Slipped from my hold—thus plenty comes and goes.
One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand
  (Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose.
There was a war, I think; some rumor, too,
  Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows;        10
Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view,
  Throve, spite of all; but I,—I met with Rose.
That year my white-faced Alma pined and died:
  Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,—who knows?
Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side,        15
  Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose.
Was there no more? Yes, that year life began:
  All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,—
All after-life compressed within the span
  Of that one year,—the year I met with Rose!        20


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