THE relic taken, what avails the shrine?

The locket, pictureless? O heart of mine,

Art thou not worse than that,

Still warm, a vacant nest where love once sat?

Her image nestled closer at my heart

Than cherished memories, healed every smart

And warmed it more than wine

Or the full summer sun in noon-day shine.

This was the little weather gleam that lit

The cloudy promontories — the real charm was

That gilded hills and woods

And walked beside me thro’ the solitudes.

The sun is set. My heart is widowed now

Of that companion-thought. Alone I plough

The seas of life, and trace

A separate furrow far from her and grace.

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