When God has made the pictures fade
and stilled imagination's dance,
when flames of memory burn low,
their embers glow and wink at me.

By little thoughts I am betrayed.
A recollection of a look:
His eyes raised briefly from the book
met mine, and shone, as mine did then
with secret, shared discovery.

By this one small and passing glance
the straining wall is ruptured wide,
and now exposed to all the tide
of full-remembered love, I know
I will not see my son again.