What shall I do―now being so bereft
I may no longer look on any day
And “He will come this evening”
fondly say?
fondly say?
How shall I, having now no pleasure left―
Of all the pleasures that of old were mine,
How shall I gather up the hours and lay
Them, each on each, all patiently away―
And have the strength to plain not nor repine?
How shall I nightly―by what artifice―
Win the sweet Lady of Poppies for my guest?
With what long pleadings buy the brief, brief bliss
Of holding her, reluctant, to my breast?
With what seductions may I lure her kiss―
Her blessed kiss of respite and of rest?
“Being so Bereft” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).