Bereft

I will not mock thy memory, most dear,
By striving to describe what soul was thine,
A soul which never more shall look on mine.
I cannot talk of any higher sphere.
Nor can I make the utter darkness clear;
I know no God, I worship at no shrine;
I only bow before thy life divine!
I will not tell of voices that I hear;

I will not tell of secret bitter tears;
I will not tell of desolated years;
Of sunless springs that come to ravaged lands;
Of altered seas that break on altered strands:
My heart has only room this thing to know, —
Thou once wast with me, and thou art not now,