The Worst Horror

This is the bitterest thing of all my days,
  That which I have loved so well, that now is dead
  And in a coffin laid away, of lead
And cedarwood, immortal somehere stays,
Or as a ghost-cloud goes its lonely ways
  By strange and boundless forces urged ahead,
  Perhaps, like me, forlorn, uncomforted,
But out of reach, howe'er one pleads or prays,
Day after day with unending lament.
  This is the bitterest thing, that I no hand
  Can reach to help, or comfort to impart,
No aid can give, and no encouragement;
  And that there wanders in that ghostly land
  Forlorn, that which I loved with all my heart!