When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf,
Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds;
And I can only stare, and shape my
In little words.
I cannot conjure loveliness, to
The bitter woe that racks my cords apart.
The weary pen that sets my sorrow
Feeds at my heart.
There is no mercy in the shifting year,
No beauty wraps me tenderly about.
I turn to little words- so you, my dear,
Can spell them out.
