In misty cerements they wrapped the word My heart had feared so long: dead... dead... I heard But marvelled they could think the thing was true Because death cannot be for such as you. So while they spoke kind words to suit my need Of foolish idle things my heart took heed, Your racquet and worn-out tennis shoe, Your pipe upon the mantel,—then a bird Upon the wind-tossed larch began to sing And I remembered how one day in Spring You found the wren’s nest in the wall and said “Hush!... listen! I can hear them quarrelling...” The tennis court is marked, the wrens are fled, But you are dead, beloved, you are dead
This poem is in the public domain.