Not in the street and not in the square, The street and square where you went and came; With shuttered casement your house stands bare, Men hush their voice when they speak your name.
I, too, can play at the vain pretence, Can feign you dead; while a voice sounds clear In the inmost depths of my heart: Go hence, Go, find your friend who is far from here.
Not here, but somewhere where I can reach! Can a man with motion, hearing and sight, And a thought that answered my thought and speech, Be utterly lost and vanished quite?
Whose hand was warm in my hand last week? . . My heart beat fast as I neared the gate-- Was it this I had come to seek, "A stone that stared with your name and date;"
A hideous, turfless, fresh-made mound; A silence more cold than the wind that blew? What had I lost, and what had I found? My flowers that mocked me fell to the ground-- Then, and then only, my spirit knew.