bereft

This poem by Robert Frost made me aware that pain, if artfully communicated, can be exquisite. When I first read it in a sophomore literature class in college, I had not yet experienced true bereavement, though I had experienced the death of three grandfathers and one high school classmate. Each was somehow removed from my innermost affections, either by distance or by degree of intimacy. I remember almost looking forward to experiencing the pain of loss at some point in my life along these lines.

Bereft

Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and the day was past.
Sombre clouds in the west were massed.
Out on the porch's sagging floor,
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.