Time does not bring relief; you have all lied. Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountainside; And last years leaves are smoke in every lane; But last years bitter loving must remain heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. There are a hundred places where I fear to go- so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!" And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
