If it be very strange and sorrowful 
To scent the first night-frost in autumntide: 
If on the sombre day when Summer died 
Men shuddered, awed to hear her burial: 
And if the dissolution of one rose 
(Whereof the future holds unnumbered store)  
Engender human tears, — ah! how much more  
Sorrows and suffers he whose sense foreknows  
The weakening and the withering of a love,  
The dying of a love that had been dear! 
Who feels upon a hand, but late love-warm, 
A hardness of indifference, like a glove; 
And in the dead calm of a voice may hear 
The menace of a drear and mighty storm.