Ii

The bitterness of his bereavement speaks in him:

Vased in her bedroom window, white As her glad girlhood, never lost, I smelt the roses--and the night Outside was fog and frost.

What though I claimed her dying there! God nor one angel understood Nor cared, who from sweet feet to hair Had changed to snow her blood.

She had been mine so long, so long! Our harp of life was one in word-- Why did death thrust his hand among The chords and break one chord!

What lily lilier than her face! More virgin than her lips I kissed! When morn, like God, with gold and grace, Broke massed in mist! broke massed in mist!