What of her glass without her? The blank gray
There where the pool is blind of the moons face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Days appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! for loves good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long woods counterpart,
Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
