Silence

My seven lovers are come back;
They stand about my gilded bed:
One says: "Of mirths she had no lack;"
One says: "Now all her griefs are sped."

I lie there a white apricot bough
The rain has tumbled to the grass,
That folk will lift in a moment now
Out of the cumbered road, and pass.

One of the seven stands alone,
His stark blue cloak like a gust behind;
He stares down at me as at stone,
With not a word of any kind.