The House of Life 53: Without Her

What of her glass without her? The blank gray

   There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.

   Her dress without her? The tossed empty space

Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.

Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway

   Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place

   Without her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace,

And cold forgetfulness of night or day.

What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,

   Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?

   A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,

Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,

Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,

   Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.