Devotion

My heart cries out from every window, and from every sill it peers and leans; my heart will not be still. Dumb beast with grieving for its kind, I cannot make it understand — It has no mind.

Earth's brown cupboard holds its only love; sterile and innocent death puts its vow of silence and of celibate surcease . . . My heart keeps running errands useless now. I have no peace.

Tell me, beloved, where you lie within the fretless household, like a queen, how can my heart know that you are dead — what does that mean?