The people take the thing of course, They marvel not to
This strange, unnatural divorce Betwixt delight and me.
I know the face of sorrow, and I
Her voice with all its varied cadences;
Which way she turns and treads; how at her
Things fit her dreary largess to bestow.
Where sorrow long abides, some be that
To hold her dear, but I am not of these;
Joy is my friend, not sorrow; by strange seas,
In some far land we wandered, long ago.
O faith, long tried, that knows no faltering!
O vanished treasure of her hands and face!—Beloved—to whose memory I cling,
Unmoved within my heart she holds her place.
And never shall I hail that other "friend,"Who yet shall dog my footsteps to the end.
