Long summer months when there are none to break
The stillness with the laugh of those who wake
New-born each day to joy; and yet I know
The stillness cannot be so still, or grow
So deeply soundless, but that for my sake
The memory-haunted, lonely rooms will take
Some echo of my vanished voice;—even so,
Amid the scenes to which I have no choice
But go without thee, dearest, there will be
No gayety so gay, no glad light glee