From One Who Stays

How empty seems the town now you are gone! A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls Hide nothing to desire; sunshine falls Eery, distorted, as it long had shone On white, dead faces tombed in halls of stone. The whir of motors, stricken through with calls Of playing boys, floats up at intervals;

But all these noises blur to one long moan. What quest is worth pursuing?

And how strange That other men still go accustomed ways!   I hate their interest in the things they do. A spectre-horde repeating without change An old routine.

Alone I know the days   Are still-born, and the world stopped, lacking you.