The Meeting

After so long an absence         At last we meet again:     Does the meeting give us pleasure,         Or does it give us pain?     The tree of life has been shaken,         And but few of us linger now,     Like the Prophet's two or three berries         In the top of the uppermost bough.     We cordially greet each other         In the old, familiar tone;     And we think, though we do not say it,         How old and gray he is grown!     We speak of a Merry Christmas         And many a Happy New Year     But each in his heart is thinking         Of those that are not here.     We speak of friends and their fortunes,         And of what they did and said,     Till the dead alone seem living,         And the living alone seem dead.     And at last we hardly distinguish         Between the ghosts and the guests;     And a mist and shadow of sadness         Steals over our merriest jests.