Variations on a Theme
(The Loss of Love)
1
This house where Love a little while abode,Impoverished completely of him now,Of every vestige bare, drained like a boughWherefrom the all-sustaining sap has flowedAway, yet bears upon its front bestowedA cabalistic legend telling howLove for a meagre space deigned to allowIt summer scent before the winter snowed.Here rots to ruin a splendor proudly calm,A skeleton whereof the clean bones wearTheir indigence relieved of any qualmFor purple robes that once were folded there.The mouldy Coliseum draws uponOur wonder yet . . . no less Love’s Parthenon.
2
All through an empty place I go,And find her not in any room;The candles and the lamps I lightGo down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,A fit, sad place to write her nameOr draw her face the way she lookedThat legendary night she came.
The old house crumbles bit by bit;Each day I hear the ominous thudThat says another rent is thereFor winds to pierce and storms to flood.
My orchards groan and sag with fruit;Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;I let it rot upon the bough;I eat what falls upon the ground.
The heavy cows go laboringIn agony with clotted teats;My hands are slack; my blood is cold;I marvel that my heart still beats.
I have no will to weep or sing,No least desire to pray or curse;The loss of love is a terrible thing;They lie who say that death is worse.