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.