Is there more to voice than its Retreating sound, echoic gloss On love and loss? Tympani dimmed To a sweep of rain on the roof . . . . Bid adieu, adieu, fond ear, fond eye, To each eviscerated sigh-- Gold bullion of goodbyes pile high, And not one lace handkerchief's discased In warm memorial of departure, Tracing effervescences of past rapture. The tattered retreat of a lapsing wave Is all the Rappahannock gives, or gave.