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130 Or partly feel and hear, mechanically— The sound of talk, with now and then the steps And skirts of some one scudding on the stairs, Forgetful of the nerveless funeral feet That she had brought with her; and more than once There came to him a call as of a voice— A voice of love returning—but not hers. Whose he knew not, nor dreamed; nor did he know, Nor did he dream, in his blurred loneliness Of thought, what all the rest might think of him.

For it had come at last, and she was gone With all the vanished women of old time,— And she was never coming back again. Yes, they had buried her that afternoon, Under the frozen leaves and the cold earth, Under the leaves and snow. The flickering week, The sharp and certain day, and the long drowse Were over, and the man was left alone. He knew the loss—Therefore it puzzled him That he should sit so long there as he did, And bring the whole thing back—the love, the trust, The pallor, the poor face, and the faint way