Edith (Nesbit) Bland (1858–1924)

THE YEAR fades, as the west wind sighs,

And droops in many-coloured 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 desolated 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 roses that you wear.

I do not weep now any more,

I think I hardly even 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!