And moved not onward to the destined end, Ordained ere time. I could but send some men Toward the frontier of her land and mine; Yet some I trusted knew that to my love There were no frontiers but that boundary Between the quick and dead. They went in quest; I waited. And one night was borne to me, Upon a litter, bloody and befouled, The corpse of Merow carried shoulder-high By mourning bearers; and I sat like stone, Dumb, tearless, stricken by excess of tears That would not weep, but lay congealed within Mine overburdened heart. All night I sat In silence, weeping not, until the stars Were lost in dawn, until the silver dawn Blossomed with splendour to a golden day; Yet knew I not that day had come, for clouds Covered the light of morning from mine eyes, Hid me in wells of darkness and thick night, A Niobe of stone, but lacking tears Which else had melted stone; till, fearfully, My son came to me and put out his hand And touched me gently; and, as in deep pools One sees obscurely through the broken lights And rippling shadows, so upon my sight, Though faint and blurred, a vision of my son Came to me, and I saw a shadowy crowd Of crouching beings far behind my son, As vague as ghosts, who filled the silent room; And then I heard my voice as from afar, Muffled in gloom, a voice that seemed not mine, Bidding them leave me; and like ghosts they went: All but my son, who knelt beside my chair Sobbing out bitterly some broken words, That held less comfort than his trembling hands. “Slowly there came to me the governance Of limbs again, and from my chair I rose, And went toward the litter where he lay, The spoil of death, in ruined loveliness; Breathless, whose breath had once made amorous The night with music. And I touched his eyes, Which kindliness had closed with piteous hands Before they brought him me, and knelt beside The bier, and spoke to him. He heard me not: For he had gone the irremeable way, Into which darkness may not penetrate The voice of love, nor yearning nor desire Pass its grim boundaries, but brooding wings Of silence cover its eternal sleep. Lost utterly! Yet still I spoke to him, As if, perchance, some whisper of my voice Might stir the pools of silence where he lay, And tremble lightly on the veils of sleep, Waking some consciousness of me. Alas! He was not there with me, but on the wind, In every tree, his soul went wandering, Through all the world dispersed. Yet still I spoke Gently to him, and kissed him; till my son Wept piteously by me, until tears Gathered in mine own eyes and I too wept In silence, by the body of my love.”