No more to hear his footstep on the stair,
And see the grace
Of his exquisite face;
No more to kiss his hair,
Bright like the sun;
No more to hear him speak,
Or touch the softness of his cheek,
Sweeter than any flower;
To know the dream is done,
And, hour by hour,
Await his footstep at my door
That comes—no more.

No more to call his blesséd name
When I awake,
And feel the morn grow fairer for his sake;
No more to claim
His little, gentle childlike ways
That gladdened all my days,
Or in the tired twilight glow
To seek his side and tell my pain;
Always to weep alone again,
O God, can it be so
The beauty that we knew of yore
To come—no more. . . .