I may not weep, not weep, and she has left,
A weary, weary weight of tears unshed.
Through the long day in my sad heart I bear;
Heaven knows in my fantasy I see her near.
I smile hard smiles; while still continually,
And now at length the talk of her that's gone,
Lightly lamenting that she left so soon--
Ah me! yet her life's sun stood at noon.
Some praise her eyes, some deem her body fair,
And some liked the colour of her hair!
Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair,
What form, what hue, save Love's own, did ye wear?