Lost passion dulls to ashes,
As unfed fire must die,
And other lips and other hands
Weak flesh will satisfy.
The dream betrayed seems foolish
And like some childish whim
In mellowed years, when living
Has balanced glad and grim.
The heart bereaved grows richer,
Refills its empty space.
The peace of death's long sleeping
Seems end of fitting grace.
Earth's loveliness is constant,
And he whose joy is thinned
Grows whole again on sunsets,
Learns voices in the wind.