Henry van Dyke

What we do belongs to what we are; and what we are is what becomes of us.

And so, by night, while we were all at rest, I think the coming sped the parting guest.

A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,—