There will be silence here, love, in the slow
Long summer months when there are none to break
The stillness with the laugh of those who wake
New-born each day to joy; and yet I know
The stillness cannot be so still, or grow
So deeply soundless, but that for my sake
The memory-haunted, lonely rooms will take
Some echo of my vanished voice;—even so,
Amid the scenes to which I have no choice
But go without thee, dearest, there will be
No gayety so gay, no glad light glee
Wherein with others I, too, must rejoice,
But through it all my heart will make for me
Silence, wherein I shall but hear thy voice.