To have our very name unsaid,
Unless it chance to fall
From careless lips that say, "She's dead,"--
She's dead, and that is all!

But sadder still
That one should fill
The place we thought our own:
That a form more light,
And an eye more bright
Should guard our dear hearth-stone;
That where we strayed another's feet
At morn and eve should roam,
And another's voice--perchance more sweet--
Make music in our home!

That where we locked
Our hands and talked
Amid our chosen flowers,
The lips we pressed
Should be caressed
By other lips than ours,--
That other eyes should watch for him,
And other arms embrace,
Until our image growing dim
Yield to another's face.

And this is love!
O injured Dove!
Thy wings have many a stain: