The year fades, as the west wind sighs,
And droops in many-colored ways,
But your soft presence never dies
From out the pathway of my days.

The spring is where you are; but still
You, far away, to me can bring
Sweet flowers and dreams enough to fill
A thousand empty worlds with spring.

I walk the wet and leafless woods,
Your spirit ever floats before,
And lights its russet solitudes
With blossoms summer never wore.

I sit beside my lonely fire,
The shadows almost bring your face,
And light with memory and desire
My dull and sombre dwelling place.

Among my books I feel your hand
That turns the page just past my sight;
Sometimes behind my chair you stand
And read the foolish rhymes I write.

The old piano’s keys I press
In random chords—until I hear
Your voice, your rustling silken dress,
And smell the violets you wear.

I do not weep now any more,
I think I hardly ever sigh,
I would not let you think I bore
The kind of wound of which men die.

Believe that smooth content has grown
Over the ghastly grave of pain;
Content! Oh lips that were my own
That I shall never kiss again!

E. Nesbit

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