Time does not bring relief; you all have lied



Who told me time would ease me of my pain!



I miss him in the weeping of the rain;



I want him at the shrinking of the tide;



The old snows melt from every mountain-side,



And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;



But last year’s bitter loving must remain



Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.



There are a hundred places where I fear



To go,—so with his memory they brim.



And entering with relief some quiet place



Where never fell his foot or shone his face



I say, “There is no memory of him here!”



And so stand stricken, so remembering him.





