And out of all the girls I knew the tender ones—the dreary ones,—
'Twas only Sheila of the laugh that broke her heart and died.
The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all
For Moon-shine or Spring-time, or a far bird's call.
I only know 'tis living by a grief that shakes it so,—
Like an East wind in Autumn, when the old nests blow.
Grey Eyes and Black Hair, 'tis never you I blame.
'Tis long years and easy years since last I spoke your name.