Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE RECALLS HER GRACES AND QUALITIES AND BEWAILS HIS GRIEVOUS LOSS

Where is that forehead whose least gentle Yes
Could sweep my trembling heart, pluck all the strings!
And the brows arched like two thin little wings,
Those planet eyes that searched my wilderness?
Where that true worth and wit, true tenderness
In thought and speech — dear irretrievable things?
Where those rare graces, richer than a king's
Whose single magic all my moods confess?
Where is the fragrant shade, the shade so sweet
That sheltered my sick spirit, holy ground
Of each recorded hope from the world's heat?
Where, where is she about whose wrist is wound
My soul? ... Weep, empty world! Plod, weary feet
Stumbling for light! Eyes, drown, in tears be drowned!