There come no tokens to us from the dead:
Save—it may be—that now and then we reap
Where not we sowed, and that may be from them,
Fruit of their prayers when we forgot to pray!
Meantime there comes no message, comes no word:
Day after day no message and no sign:
And the heart droops, and finds that it was Love
Not Fame it longed for, lived for: only Love.