LOST LOVE

His eyes are quickened so with grief,

He can watch a grass or leaf

Every instant grow; he can

Clearly through a flint wall see,

Or watch the startled spirit flee

From the throat of a dead man.

Across two counties he can hear

And catch your words before you speak.

The woodlouse or the maggot’s weak

Clamour rings in his sad ear,

And noise so slight it would surpass

Credence – drinking sound of grass,

Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth

Chumbling holes in cloth;

The groan of ants who undertake

Gigantic loads for honour’s sake

(Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin);

Whir of spiders when they spin,

And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs

Of idle grubs and flies.

This man is quickened so with grief,

He wanders god-like or like thief

Inside and out, below, above,

Without relief seeking lost love.

[From The Treasure Box (1919)]