THE BOOK OF ANNANDALE
Thus would his fancy circle out and out,
And out and in again, till he would make
As if with a large freedom to crush down
Those under-thoughts. He covered with his hands -
His tired eyes, and waited : he could hear
Or partly feel and hear, mechanically
The sound of talk, with now and then the steps
And skirts of some one scudding on the stairs,
Forgetful of the nerveless funeral feet
That she had brought with her; and more than once
There came to him a call as of a voice
A voice of love returning, but not hers.
Whose he knew not, nor dreamed ; nor did he know,
Nor did he dream, in his blurred loneliness
Of thought, what all the rest might think of him.
For it had come at last, and she was gone
With all the vanished women of old time, —
And she was never coming back again.
Yes, they had buried her that afternoon,
Tinder the frozen leaves and the cold earth,
Under the leaves and snow. The flickering week,
The sharp and certain day, and the long drowse
Were over, and the man was left alone.
He knew the loss therefore it puzzled him
That he should sit so long there as he did,
And bring the whole thing back the love, the trust,
The pallor, the poor face, and the faint way
She last had looked at him and yet not weep,
Or even choose to look about the room
To see how sad it was ; and once or twice
He winked and pinched his eyes against the flame
And hoped there might be tears. But hope was all,
And all to him was nothing: he_ was lost.
And yet he was not lost: he was astray
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