The Lost Love

  His eyes are quickened so with grief,
  He can watch a grass or leaf
  Every instant grow; he can
  Clearly through a flint wall see,
  Or watch the startled spirit flee
  From the throat of a dead man.
  Across two counties he can hear,
  And catch your words before you speak.
  The woodlouse or the maggot's weak
  Clamour rings in his sad ear;
  And noise so slight it would surpass
  Credence: — drinking sound of grass,
  Worm-talk, clashing jaws of moth
  Chumbling holes in cloth:
  The groan of ants who undertake
  Gigantic loads for honour's sake —
  Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:
  Whir of spiders when they spin,
  And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
  Of idle grubs and flies.
  This man is quickened so with grief,
  He wanders god-like or like thief
  Inside and out, below, above,
  Without relief seeking lost love.