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Who would have guessed four words, so quickly said,
Could raise this wall between us? I, who knew
Each thought of yours, look silently at you
And only know some precious thing for dead.
I wonder at your still, averted head,
Your listless hands, grope for a word or two,
And ponder, aching, if the thing be true
I told you, or the thing you answer├ęd.

 

And when you go, night closes swiftly in,
Sleepless and sob-wracked, with no memory
Of any beauty; and strange forms begin
To whisper death the only path for me.
For in this dark and doorless room of sorrow
Is no dear past, and no fresh-eyed tomorrow.