I think that the bitterest sorrow or pain <br /> Of love unrequited, or cold death’s woe, <br /> Is sweet, compared to that hour when we know <br />That some grand passion is on the wane. <br /> <br />When we see that the glory, and glow, and grace <br /> Which lent a splendour to night and day, <br /> Are surely fading, and showing grey <br />And dull groundwork of the commonplace. <br /> <br />When fond expressions on dull ears fall, <br /> When the hands clasp calmly without one thrill, <br /> When we cannot muster by force of will <br />The old emotions that came at call. <br /> <br />When the dream has vanished we fain would keep, <br /> When the heart, like a watch, runs out of gear, <br /> And all the savour goes out of the year, <br />Oh, then is the time – if we could – to weep! <br /> <br />But no tears soften this dull, pale woe; <br /> We must sit and face it with dry, sad eyes. <br /> If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies – <br />We can only be passive, and let it go.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/desolation/
