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| THE YEAR fades, as the west wind sighs, | |
| And droops in many-coloured ways, | |
| But your soft presence never dies | |
| From out the pathway of my days. | |
| |
| The spring is where you are; but still | 5 |
| You, far away, to me can bring | |
| Sweet flowers and dreams enough to fill | |
| A thousand empty worlds with spring. | |
| |
| I walk the wet and leafless woods, | |
| Your spirit ever floats before, | 10 |
| And lights its russet solitudes | |
| With blossoms summer never wore. | |
| |
| I sit beside my lonely fire, | |
| The shadows almost bring your face, | |
| And light with memory and desire | 15 |
| My desolated dwelling-place. | |
| |
| Among my books I feel your hand | |
| That turns the page just past my sight; | |
| Sometimes behind my chair you stand | |
| And read the foolish rhymes I write. | 20 |
| |
| The old piano’s keys I press | |
| In random chords—until I hear | |
| Your voice, your rustling silken dress, | |
| And smell the roses that you wear. | |
| |
| I do not weep now any more, | 25 |
| I think I hardly even sigh, | |
| I would not let you think I bore | |
| The kind of wound of which men die. | |
| |
| Believe that smooth content has grown | |
| Over the ghastly grave of pain; | 30 |
| Content! Oh lips that were my own | |
| That I shall never kiss again! | |
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