| Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912. |
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| Edmund Clarence Stedman. 1833–1906 |
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| 181. The World Well Lost |
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| THAT year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,— | |
| Though why take count of every wind that blows! | |
| 'T was plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill | |
| That year,—the self-same year I met with Rose. | |
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| Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land, | 5 |
| Slipped from my hold—thus plenty comes and goes. | |
| One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand | |
| (Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose. | |
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| There was a war, I think; some rumor, too, | |
| Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows; | 10 |
| Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view, | |
| Throve, spite of all; but I,—I met with Rose. | |
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| That year my white-faced Alma pined and died: | |
| Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,—who knows? | |
| Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side, | 15 |
| Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose. | |
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| Was there no more? Yes, that year life began: | |
| All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,— | |
| All after-life compressed within the span | |
| Of that one year,—the year I met with Rose! | 20 |
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