All through an empty place I go, <br />And find her not in any room; <br />The candles and the lamps I light <br />Go down before a wind of gloom. <br />Thick-spraddled lies the dust about, <br />A fit, sad place to write her name <br />Or draw her face the way she looked <br />That legendary night she came. <br /> <br />The old house crumbles bit by bit; <br />Each day I hear the ominous thud <br />That says another rent is there <br />For winds to pierce and storms to flood. <br /> <br />My orchards groan and sag with fruit; <br />Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round; <br />I let it rot upon the bough; <br />I eat what falls upon the ground. <br /> <br />The heavy cows go laboring <br />In agony with clotted teats; <br />My hands are slack; my blood is cold; <br />I marvel that my heart still beats. <br /> <br />I have no will to weep or sing, <br />No least desire to pray or curse; <br />The loss of love is a terrible thing; <br />They lie who say that death is worse.<br /><br />Countee Cullen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-loss-of-love/
