Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the time;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke to every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped upon my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,--so with his memory they brim,
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, remembering him.
