After you went a low wind warbled through the house like a spacious bird, making it high but lonely. When you had gone the love came. The supper of the heart is when the guest is gone. After the tongue's hunger had gone where birdsong went when night sealed it out, when Silence shuttered the wind, and the house locked itself in: you came through lost walls carrying high the heart's banquet. It is high time to feast. Famine's the foregone passage. Before love came and the low wind came and went in and out of this house, heart had not tasted dearth. Death is when the heart starves, when want piles high this house with empty salvers. Abundance has gone the way wind goes, and body went, leaving but heart. Take heart. It overcame such absence as came over it like a drought. It grew a harvest when you went back to earth like rain returned to high fundament. Feel that fargone dew feeding this house. Feel summer fill this house bountifully. Admit my succor came out of your lineaments -- loved traces gone to seed as when resembling crops surge high from seed that went to earth. Oh thanks, that when love's grain went down, this house yet stayed and time itself became high yield: love's burial gone to love's bestowal.