Not in the street and not in the square,
   The street and square where you went and came;
With shuttered casement your house stands bare, 
   Men hush their voice when they speak your name.

I, too, can play at the vain pretence,
   Can feign you dead; while a voice sounds clear
In the inmost depths of my heart: Go hence, 
   Go, find your friend who is far from here.

Not here, but somewhere where I can reach! 
   Can a man with motion, hearing and sight,
And a thought that answered my thought and speech, 
   Be utterly lost and vanished quite?

Whose hand was warm in my hand last week? . . 
   My heart beat fast as I neared the gate—
Was it this I had come to seek,
   "A stone that stared with your name and date;"

A hideous, turfless, fresh-made mound;
   A silence more cold than the wind that blew?
What had I lost, and what had I found?
   My flowers that mocked me fell to the ground—
Then, and then only, my spirit knew.