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.