I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;



That only men incredulous of despair,



Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air



Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access



Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,



In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare



Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare



Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express



Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—



Most like a monumental statue set



In everlasting watch and moveless woe



Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.



Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:



If it could weep, it could arise and go.









