Aug 212011
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.

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