THE GRIEF

The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all

For Moon-shine or Spring-time, or a far bird's call.

I only know‘ tis living by a grief that shakes it so,—

Like an East wind in Autumn, when the old nests blow.

Grey Eyes and Black Hair,‘ tis never you I blame.

‘ Tis long years and easy years since last I spoke your name.

And I'm long past the knife-thrust I got at wake or fair.

Or looking past the lighted door and fancying you there.

Grey Eyes and Black Hair — the grief is never this;

I've long forgot the soft arms — the first, wild kiss.

But, Oh, girl that tore my youth,—‘ tis this I have to bear,—

If you were kneeling at my feet I'd neither stay nor care.