My life is less than any broken glass . . . .
My long and weary love, thy lips unwon-
All, all is turned to mere oblivion
With the grey flowers and the fallen grass
Of yesteryear. And on the winds that pass
Thy music and thy memory are one;
For thy wan face, desired above the sun,
Only some languid echo saith Alas. . . .

Love is no more, immemorably flown
As any leaf or petal. . . . But to me
The very fields are still, and strange, and lone;
The forest and the garden fail for breath,
Where the dumb heavens hold implacably
An autumn like the marble sleep of death.