Countee Cullen (30 May 1903 – 9 January 1946 / New York)
The Loss of Love
All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write her name
Or draw her face the way she looked
That legendary night she came.
The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Each day I hear the ominous thud
That says another rent is there
For winds to pierce and storms to flood.
My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;
I let it rot upon the bough;
I eat what falls upon the ground.
The heavy cows go laboring
In agony with clotted teats;
My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
I marvel that my heart still beats.
I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse.
Poet Other Poems
- A Brown Girl Dead
- For A Lady I Know
- For A Poet
- From the Dark Tower
- Fruit of the Flower
- Harlem Wine
- I Have A Rendezvous With Life
- In Memory Of Col. Charles Young
- Karenge Ya Marenge
- Lines To My Father
- Saturday's Child
- She Of The Dancing Feet Sings
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.