The Loss Of Love

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.

by Countee Cullen

Other poems of CULLEN (27)

Comments (3)

It's really a touching poem. When I read the title, I didn't guess the deepness that the poem would have. It goes, deeper than the skin. Very good.
A touching poem, particularly in the first four lines. Well rhymed, and not spoiled by the slightly irregular lines. But I wonder, what is the significance of 'a man worth knowing because of his knowledge of wheels'? Was this simply to make a rhyme for 'ideals'? That couplet might repay some re-working.
The bond t'ween a father and son... Hopely n'ee'r to end but always to run. As they fish... Emptied hooks with only a thoughtful wish. Lets cast our lines to catch a bunch... Perhaps on later the poles will bend or crunch. Happy days of fishing of a father and son... May this day of day lead to more days of days and fun in the sun. I totally enjoyed your poem kind sir. An easy tenner here t'was given. God bless all poets-MJG.