There is a mystic borderland that lies
Just past the limits of our workday world,
And its peopled with the friend we met
And loved a year, a month, a week or day,
And parted from with aching hearts, yet knew
That through the distance we must lose the hold
Of hand with hand, and only clasp the thread
Of memory.  But still so close we feel this land,
So sure we are that these same hearts are true,
That when in walking dreams there comes a call
That sets the thread of memory aglow,
We know that just by stretching out the hand
In written word of love, book, or flower,
The waiting hand will clasp our own once more
Across the distance in the same old way.

~ Helen Field Fischer ~