THE SAME CONTINUED
Yet we shall live without love, as some live
Without their limbs, their senses, maimed or deaf.
We even shall forget love, and shall thrive
And prosper and grow fat upon our grief.
You are consoled already more than half,
And wear your sorrow lightly. I will boast
No longer the refusal of relief
Than as a decent mourner of hopes crossed.
We yet shall laugh, and laughter is more loud
When following tears. The men who drive a hearse
Are not the least lighthearted of the crowd.
See, we have made love's epitaph in verse
And fairly buried him. God's ways are best.
Then home to pleasure and the funeral feast.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
