And, well-belovèd, is this all, this all

And, well-belovèd, is this all, this all? Gone, like a vapour which the potent morn Kills, and in killing glorifies! I call Through the lone night for thee, my dear first-born Soul-fellow! but my heart vibrates in vain. Ah! well I know, and often fancy forms The weather-blown churchyard where thou art lain— The churchyard whistling to the frequent storms. But down the valley, by the river side, Huge walnut-trees—bronze-foliaged, motionless As leaves of metal—in their shadows hide Warm nests, low music, and true tenderness. But thou, betrothed! art far from me, from me. O heart! be merciful—I loved him utterly.