How Strange It Will Be
How strange it will be, love—how strange, when we two
Shall be what some lovers become;
You frigid and faithless, I cold and untrue—
You thoughtless of me, and I careless of you—
Our pet names grown rusty with nothing to do—
Love’s bright web unravelled, and rent, and worn through,
And life’s loom left empty—ah hum!
Ah, me,
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be, love—how strange, when we meet
With just a chill touch of the hand!
When my pulses no longer delightedly beat
At the thought of your coming, the sound of your feet—
When I watch not your going, far down the long street;
When your dear loving voice, now so thrillingly sweet,
Grows harsh in reproach or command—
Ah, me,
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be, when we willingly stay
Divided the weary day through!
Or, getting remotely apart as we may,
Sit chilly and silent, with nothing to say,
Or coolly converse on the news of the day,
In a wearisome, old-married-folks sort of way!
I shrink from the picture—don’t you?
Ah, me,
How sad it will be!
Dear love, if our hearts do grow torpid and old,
As many others have done;
If we let our love perish with hunger and cold,
If we dim all life’s diamonds, and tarnish its gold,
If we choose to live wretched, and die unconsoled,
‘Twill be strangest of all things that ever were told
As happening under the sun!
Ah, me,
How sad it will be!
—Frank E. Holliday.
Marriage is a holy sacrament; woe unto him who is guilty of desecrating it!
Alternate Reading: Matthew 19:13-14.