No depth, dear love, for thee is too profound,
There is no farthest height thou may’st not dare,
Nor shall thy wings fail in the upper air;
In funeral robes and wreaths my past lies wound;
No ancient strain assails me with its sound
Hearing thy voice; no former joy seems fair,
Since now one only thing could bring despair,
One grief, like compassing seas, my life surround,
One only terror in my way be met,
One great eclipse change my glad day to night,
One phantom only turn from red to white
The lips whereon thy lips have once been set:
Thou knowest well, dear love, what that must be —
The dread of some dark day unshared by thee.