Our Common Hoard

I say: "She is not here, for she is dead,"
And crunch that word between my teeth, to know
The taste of it. I say: "For she is dead."
Out in the street I feel that it is so;
But when I houseward turn, I quite forget,
For some slight village talk I think to share
Within that room in deserted April set;—
Sudden her vacant shawl upon a chair!
And she is dead! This will not serve at all.
That still we share, as each with each, is plain,
This dusk, that star, the stir of that tall tree—
The purple of that flower by the wall,
Our wistful part of weathers come again.
Since loveliness is left, then so is she!