Bright faces come and go, fair shapes
Dance up and down the wall;
A presence in the crowded room
Takes precedence of all.
We see it night and day, howe'er
By shine or shadow crost, —
A little vacant spot, wherefrom
One little face is lost.
The sound of music swells and falls,
And laughter fills our ears, —
A silence, hollowed out of life,
Is all our spirit hears.
That silence, like a hush of prayer,
Can drown the loudest speech,
And, piercing sharp through laugh and song,
Our inmost sense can reach.
No thunder of the outer world,
No burning rage of pain,
No passion-storms of love or grief
That beat on heart and brain,
Beat down with such constraining strength
The vital forces there,
As that dull, soundless ache of loss
Which lonely mourners bear.
O little garments in the drawer,
With such precision spread!
O little chair against the wall!
O little cradle-bed,
Uncurtained, in the silent room,
And pillowless and cold!
O mother's arms and tender hands,
That have no babe to hold!
We know full well the worth and wealth
Of which we are bereft;
But where are words wherewith to tell
The emptiness that's left! —
Wherewith to span that shoreless void,
Sound its unfathomed deeps,
And picture to the common sense
The sacred thing it keeps.
