I wondered why the Preacher saith,
"Like as the grass that withereth."
The late, close blades still waved around:
I clutched a handful from the ground.
"He mocks us cruelly," I said:
"The frail herb lives, and she is dead."
I lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she;
The long slow hours passed over me.
I saw Grief face to face; I know
The very form and traits of Woe.