The Loss Of Love

All through an empty place I go,

And find her not in any room;

The candles and the lamps I

Go down before a wind of gloom.

Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,

A fit, sad place to write her

Or draw her face the way she

That legendary night she came.

The old house crumbles bit by bit;

Each day I hear the ominous

That says another rent is

For winds to pierce and storms to flood.

My orchards groan and sag with fruit;

Where,

Indian-wise, the bees go round;

I let it rot upon the bough;

I eat what falls upon the ground.

The heavy cows go

In agony with clotted teats;

My hands are slack; my blood is cold;

I marvel that my heart still beats.

I have no will to weep or sing,

No least desire to pray or curse;

The loss of love is a terrible thing;

They lie who say that death is worse.