They sit in the winter gloaming,
And the fire burns bright between;
One has passed seventy summers,
And the other just seventeen.
They rest in a happy silence
As the shadows deepen fast;
One lives in a coming future,
And one in a long, long past.
Each dreams of a rush of music,
And a question whispered low;
One will hear it this evening,
One heard it long ago.
Each dreams of a loving husband
Whose brave heart is hers alone;
For one the joy is coming,
For one the joy has flown.
Each dreams of a life of gladness
Spent under the sunny skies;
And both the hope and the memory
Shine in the happy eyes.
Who knows which dream is the brightest?
And who knows which is the best?
The sorrow and joy are mingled,
But only the end is rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.