It is night─and the weary town
Is lying asleep and still;
The stars burn soft in the blue;
The dove plains to the hill.
The moon is low in the West,
The wind is sweet of the sea,
A cricket out in the dark
Is shrilling a threnody.
Forever the stars will burn,
And the wind be sweet of the sea;
The dove still plain to the hill,
The cricket to the lea.
But out, far out in the dark,
In a house that is cool and deep,
We of restless hearts
Shall be lying fast asleep.
How will it be with us then,
From the warmth and the love apart?
Will the old tears ache in the eyes─
The old wish in the heart?
Will we awaken and think
Of the cruel words we spoke?
Of the faith we did not keep─
The hearts we hurt or broke?
Must we lie down at last
To tears and vain regret?
Or will God whisper low─
“Poor sorry ones, forget”?
“How Will it Be?” as it appears in Higginson’s The Vanishing Race (1911).