LIII WITHOUT HER

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LIII

WITHOUT HER

What of her glass without her? The blank grey

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

    Her dress without her? The tossed empty space

Of cloud-rack when 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.