The Friend Departs

'Tis not alone that you have gone from me:
All the hungry, fragile roots of hope
Are blasted by a Thing I cannot name;
And I am desolate remembering

The rare kiss, the intimate silent climbing
From passion to a breathless comprehension.
Even my peace of heart, born of long pain,
Dies, drowned in a turbulence of passion.

Life today is like a glass reflecting
Nothing more than my own grieving eyes,
Or like a goblet that I sit and stare at,
Empty of all but stains of last night's wine.

From On a Grey Thread (Will Ransom, 1923) by Elsa Gidlow. This poem is in the public domain.