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Francis Thompson - After Her Going
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The after-even!  Ah, did I walk,
  Indeed, in her or even?
For nothing of me or around
  But absent She did leaven,
Felt in my body as its soul,
  And in my soul its heaven.

`Ah me! my very flesh turns soul,
  Essenced,` I sighed, `with bliss!`
And the blackbird held his lutany,
  All fragrant-through with bliss;
And all things stilled were as a maid
  Sweet with a single kiss.

For grief of perfect fairness, eve
  Could nothing do but smile;
The time was far too perfect fair,
  Being but for a while;
And ah, in me, too happy grief
  Blinded herself with smile!

The sunset at its radiant heart
  Had somewhat unconfest:
The bird was loath of speech, its song
  Half-refluent on its breast,
And made melodious toyings with
  A note or two at best.

And she was gone, my sole, my Fair,
  Ah, sole my Fair, was gone!
Methinks, throughout the world `twere right
  I had been sad alone;
And yet, such sweet in all things` heart,
  And such sweet in my own!
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