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Fresh grief can occupy itself
With its own recent smart; It feeds itself on outward things,
And not on its own heart.
New sorrow never goads : it seems
To fill and occupy; But I am goaded to despair
By this blind vacancy :
And then it is such calm despair, Such a mute and-passive pain,
That they who love me smile, and say, — That I am myself again!
I move about, and do my work.
That old routine of yore; But, if I seem to sorrow less,
It is to miss him more.
When I have missed him most all day,
I have him in my dreams; And then how worse than the first loss
The dismal waking seems!
This sense of loss, — oh can it last ?
Or, if it lasts, be borne? The extremity that comes at night
Has a worse extreme at morn.