by WALTER DE LA MARE
EV’N on the tenderest hour of love
A stealthy spectre may intrude,
And, with the wreckage of a dream,
Daunt the day’s solitude.
Then from a limbo in the mind
Fear lifts a haggard face and cries,
“Yours may the fate be to live on
When cold in death she lies:
And then to stay. And wait . . .”
I see you, silent in the grave —
That rapes the heart of all it loved,
To miss, to mourn, to crave.