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.
