FORSAKEN

The word is said, and I no more shall know

Aught of the changing story of her days,

Nor any treasure that her lips bestow.

And I, who loving her was wont to praise

All things in love, now reft of music go

With silent step down unfrequented ways.

My soul is like a lonely market-place,

Where late were laughing folk and shining steeds

And many things of comeliness and grace;

And now between the stones are twisting weeds,

No sound there is, nor any friendly face,

Save for a bedesman telling o’ er his beads.