I.

The studio is deserted,
Palette and brush laid by,
The sketch rests on the easel,
The paint is scarcely dry;
And Silence—­who seems always
Within her depths to bear
The next sound that will utter—­
Now holds a dumb despair.

II.

So Alice feels it:  listening
With breathless, stony fear,
Waiting the dreadful summons
Each minute brings more near: 
When the young life, now ebbing,
Shall fail, and pass away
Into that mighty shadow
Who shrouds the house to-day.

III.

But why—­when the sick chamber
Is on the upper floor—­
Why dares not Alice enter
Within the close—­shut door? 
If he—­her all—­her Brother,
Lies dying in that gloom,
What strange mysterious power
Has sent her from the room?

IV.

It is not one week’s anguish
That can have changed her so;
Joy has not died here lately,
Struck down by one quick blow;
But cruel months have needed
Their long relentless chain,
To teach that shrinking manner
Of helpless, hopeless pain.

V.

The struggle was scarce over
Last Christmas Eve had brought: 
The fibres still were quivering
Of the one wounded thought,
When Herbert—­who, unconscious,
Had guessed no inward strife—­
Bade her, in pride and pleasure,
Welcome his fair young wife.

VI.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling,
Although his eyes were dim,
Thanked God he thus could pay her
The care she gave to him. 
This fresh bright life would bring her
A new and joyous fate—­
Oh, Alice, check the murmur
That cries, “Too late! too late!”

VII.

Too late!  Could she have known it
A few short weeks before,
That his life was completed,
And needing hers no more,
She might—­Oh sad repining! 
What “might have been,” forget;
“It was not,” should suffice us
To stifle vain regret.

VIII.

He needed her no longer,
Each day it grew more plain;
First with a startled wonder,
Then with a wondering pain. 
Love:  why, his wife best gave it;
Comfort:  durst Alice speak,
Or counsel, when resentment
Flushed on the young wife’s cheek?

IX.

No more long talks by firelight
Of childish times long past,
And dreams of future greatness
Which he must reach at last;
Dreams, where her purer instinct
With truth unerring told,
Where was the worthless gilding,
And where refined gold.