The Year’s End
What are my ways now that my Love is dead?
As candles round a bier stand future days.
Must I then read in annals of years fled
What are my ways?
On, the Time-reaping shining sickle sways;
I watch in fog and rain with bended head;
And for no flower swathe the cold blade stays.
If memory were a solace, hearts that bled
Were healed long since!... Now the quick tear betrays
I may not with my past be comforted:
What are my ways?