Who knows but he whose heart has felt the need
Of consolation, only time can give;
But he whose soul has cried out to be freed,
To leave the living and beside the dead to live.
That little stool within the corner there
Is hallowed by a presence; I can see
Her gaily seated on its top so worn and bare,
With roguish eyes and dimples smiling up at me.
When winter sun is mirrored on the floor,
It seems ’tis but the glory of her hair.
I fancy I can see her near the door:
Is it so very wonderful or yet so rare?
‘Tis only he, who thru the day and night
Has felt the iteration of his grief,
Who striving blindly thru the darkness, seeks the light;
Who knows the gnawing pangs of loss, without relief.
It seems her little chair calls out to me
With sorrow in its voice, that I too share.
Where are her toys; her doll she brought to me
To tie a ribbon on its tangled, curly hair?
Three weary months, each day a month itself,
Yet still I feel the anguish Death has wrought;
I cannot lay my grief on a forgotten shelf;
I must find comfort in an endless train of thought.
– Circa 1934