Standing in the hush

Of empty spaces, empty, empty,

The silence echoes, though he remains


He cannot hear himself but

for the tears;

For the flowing of tears

And the ebbing of the flow

For the waxing moon

and the waning moon--

too close a reflection, too close,

Surely he is not to wax and wan so soon?--

and for the clouds that obscure the stars

that muffle the silence

and swallow the earth

in unconscious eternal sleep--

Forfeiting the green of spring for nondescript,

is that so different from what I have done?

Am I not now dug in just as deep?

Am I to stop the course of--;

that enclose the city in a suffocating embrace,

dusting the ground with the icy offerings of winter.


remains the sound of the


the veil flapping soundlessly in silent wind--


And the tears that ache

to whisper across the

once vivid, now dull empty space,--

once I had Lily's eyes--

Clutching to the glass, trickling through,

Aching to paint their pale canvas with glimmering,

Cascading rivulets of hues of grey--,

Remain aloof, remain aloof, safe, aloof, alone--

And the silence is untouched,

and he is untouched.