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The Loss Of Love
(30 May 1903 – 9 January 1946 / New York)

The Loss Of Love

Poem By Countee Cullen

All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write her name
Or draw her face the way she looked
That legendary night she came.

The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Each day I hear the ominous thud
That says another rent is there
For winds to pierce and storms to flood.

My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;
I let it rot upon the bough;
I eat what falls upon the ground.

The heavy cows go laboring
In agony with clotted teats;
My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
I marvel that my heart still beats.

I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse.

User Rating: 3,9 / 5 ( 41 votes ) 46

Comments (46)

I am a huge fan of Countee Cullen. This poem is what a real poem should be like!
'I have no will to weep or sing, No least desire to pray or curse; The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse' - the last four lines evoked melancholia in me. An excellent poetic presentation.
Loss of love is worse than the death rightly said so brilliantly narrated......10++
The heavy cows go laboring In agony with clotted teats; My hands are slack; my blood is cold; I marvel that my heart still beats. a fine poem. tony
I have no will to weep or sing, No least desire to pray or curse.... //.... The loss of love comes alive so poignantly. Thanks.


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