Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Mourner

The Mourner.

Half-unbelieving doth my heart remain of its great woe;
I waken, and a dull dead sense of pain is all I know.

Then dimly in the darkness of my mind I feel about,
To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find my sorrow out.

And hardly with long pains my heart I bring its loss to own:
Still seems it so impossible a thing that thou art gone—

That not in all my life I evermore, with pleased ear,
Thy quick light feet advancing to my door again shall hear—

That thou not ever with inquiring looks or subtle talk
Shalt bring to me sweet hindrance 'mid my books or studious walk—

That whatsoever else of good for me in store remain,
This lieth out of hope, my child, to see thy face again.