TRISTESSE DE LA MORT

by Wynn Wheldon


The drama of death,
When it is done with,
Leaves life daily dull.
The empty hall
Is a lonely place.
Gone is the odd pulse
Of loving while love’s
Object’s departed.
We miss our sorrow’s
Full heaving, and find
The days are drained
Of feeling, which were
So full, in death, of living.

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