TO HIS DEAD WIFE by THEODOR STORM

HERE is too black a grief for bearing,
That still the sun makes golden time,
And day to night is still a-wearing,
That as when you with us were faring
The clocks tick and the steeples chime;

That when the candle-time is here
We gather still in household grace,
And nothing seems to miss you, dear,
Though where you sat so many a year
Another chair is in the place;

While I know the moon is weaving
Now her thin and lonely beams
To the vault of my bereaving,
Desolate, as is my grieving,
On a tomb of ghostly dreams.

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