This sombre cloth, these morning weeds,
Are woven from the darkest thread;
Neatly folded memories, they wait,
Each dawn, beside my lonely bed.
The sadness and regret that are
Hidden, in their silent warp and weft,
Are stones whose weight is only matched
By my heart's unburdenable heft.
Every day I climb, reluctantly,
Into those stiff, unyielding togs,
Reminders, as if I needed them,
That you have thrown me to the dogs.
The clothes that so encumber me,
Yet barely hide my threadbare life,
Are plain, now, for everyone to see,
Since I took loneliness to wife.
And each sullen, glow'ring, sunless morn,
The grey, stained leather clouds descend,
Blotting out the one true light,
From a heart that will never mend.
The Gods decreed that we should never be,
And I suppose Gods must be right;
But I would rather they had blinded me,
Than take you from beyond my sight.
