  T There will be silence here, love, in the slow Long summer months when there are none to break The stillness with the laugh of those who wake New-born each day to joy; and yet I know The stillness cannot be so still, or grow So deeply soundless, but that for my sake The memory-haunted, lonely rooms will take Some echo of my vanished voice;—even so, Amid the scenes to which I have no choice But go without thee, dearest, there will be No gayety so gay, no glad light glee Wherein with others I, too, must rejoice, But through it all my heart will make for me |
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