You’ve gone again, and I sit granite faced,
Astare at this, the loss of my estate,
To count my grievings, seen as if afar
Through mist and hurt, and bramble patch and pain
Where life may only tear you at the briar
To leave blood-blackberry patches at the stain
Of every love, turned ash, or died, or went
Beyond the realm of touch, or argument.
So here I sit, and never look aside
But stare ahead, pretending life pretence,
And sleep, that blessed anaesthetic state
As life, but turned about by accident –
While I, unmoved, unmoving sit in fear
That grief will overwhelm me as I stare.

David Lewis Paget