Silence

My seven lovers are come back;

They stand about my gilded bed:

One says: "Of mirths she had no lack;"

One says: "Now all her griefs are sped."

I lie there a white apricot bough

The rain has tumbled to the grass,

That folk will lift in a moment now

Out of the cumbered road, and pass.

One of the seven stands alone,

His stark blue cloak like a gust behind;

He stares down at me as at stone,

With not a word of any kind.