Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.
There is no vacant chair. If he will take
The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,
Plead not nor question! Let him have this one.
Death is a mood of life. It is no whim
By which life's Giver wrecks a broken heart.
Death is life's reticence. Still audible to him,
The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart.
There is no vacant chair. To love is still