The Grief

The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all For Moon-shine or Spring-time, or a far bird's call. I only know 'tis living by a grief that shakes it so,— Like an East wind in Autumn, when the old nests blow. Grey Eyes and Black Hair, 'tis never you I blame. 'Tis long years and easy years since last I spoke your name. And I'm long past the knife-thrust I got at wake or fair. Or looking past the lighted door and fancying you there. Grey Eyes and Black Hair—the grief is never this; I've long forgot the soft arms—the first, wild kiss. But, Oh, girl that tore my youth,—'tis this I have to bear,— If you were kneeling at my feet I'd neither stay nor care.