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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348460" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Bereft</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">FOR nine drear nights my darling has been dead; <br> And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her! <br> Now I shall see her always lying white— <br> A frozen flower beneath a snow of flowers, <br> Drowned in a sea of fragrance. I shall hear <br> In every silence of the coming years <br> Only the muffled horror from the room <br> Where I had left my little child asleep— <br> And found a nameless thing shut in and sealed… <br> And I shall never feel her breath that kissed <br> Me closer than her lips did; for the thick, <br> Dead perfume of slow-drooping flowers has drawn <br> A veil across my memory.…She is dead; <br> For nine drear nights I have not dreamed of her. <br> When, all a tangle of wee clambering limbs, <br> And little gusts of laughter and of tears, <br> Sun-flecked and shadow-stricken every hour, <br> She played about me, I could lie all night <br> And dream of her. She came in wondrous ways, <br> Hiding behind the dark to startle me; <br> Then leaping down the vistas of the night, <br> And yielding all her wistful soul to me <br> With kisses tenderer and words more sweet <br> Than that mad, random vehemence of love <br> She lavished on me through her laughing day. <br> <br> And now she has been dead nine dreary nights, <br> And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her! <br> Her idle hoop is hung against the wall, <br> And in the dusk her cherished garments seem <br> As if still warmed with all her eager life. <br> And here the childish story that she wrote <br> Herself, and never finished;—how one day <br> With puzzled pucker of her brow she stopped <br> Mid-sentence! as if God had gravely held <br> A finger up to hush her, and she knew <br> She was to keep His secrets;—soon, so soon, <br> Perhaps He whispered low, she would know all. <br> And now she has been dead nine long sad nights; <br> And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her! <br> So I shall see her always lying white— <br> A frozen flower beneath a snow of flowers, <br> Drowned in a sea of fragrance. Now it seems <br> As if the memories I hold of her <br> Have shrivelled with the lilies that she loved <br> And lay with on her little narrow bed. <br> And now she will not murmur through my dreams <br> Those faint, strange words that mean so much in dreams, <br> And wither with the morn. I lie awake <br> And whisper to my hopes, “To-night I'll hear <br> Her petulant hands knock at my dreams' shut gate; <br> <br> And oh, the gladness when I let her in! <br> Hush! what a patter of impatient feet <br> Down the long staircase of the stars!” And then <br> I sleep, and with an endless weariness <br> I grope among the spaces of the dark <br> For rhythm of her unresting feet, or touch <br> Of her caressing fingers, or the kiss <br> And whisper of her little self-willed curls; <br> But never lifts her laugh across the dark, <br> And never may I smooth her wilful curls, <br> And when I wake again I see her yet, <br> So pitifully thin and chill and straight, <br> Who used to be all curves—a living flame! <br> For nine drear nights my darling has been dead, <br> And till I die I cannot dream of her. <br> Perhaps she aches to come, shut in her grave— <br> So deep to dig to hide that tender form! <br> Dear God! she is too frail and weak to climb <br> The horror of those walls that hedge her in; <br> And when you call her to you let me be <br> Close by her side to lift her little feet <br> Up to the grass and sunshine of this world, <br> That lacking her is now so desolate. <br> So I have called and called…she does not come. <br> And yet I know the way into my heart <br> She has not quite forgotten…She does not come. <br> And now for nine drear nights she has been dead; <br> And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Arthur+Henry+Adams">Arthur Henry Adams</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348460" data-title="Bereft de Arthur Henry Adams" data-description="FOR nine drear nights my darling has been dead; 
 And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her! 
 Now I shall see her always lying white— 
 A frozen flower beneath a snow of flowers, 
 Drowned in a sea of fragrance. I shall hear 
 In every silence of..."></div>
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