As I Walked Through The Lamplit Gardens, On The Thin White Crust Of Snow, So Intensely Was I Thinking Of My Misfortune, So Clearly Were My Eyes Fixed On The Face Of This Grief Which Has Come To Me, That I Did Not Notice The Beautiful Pale Colouring Of Lamplight On The Snow; Nor The Interlaced Long Blue Shadows Of Trees; And Yet These Things Were There, And The White Lamps, And The Orange Lamps, And The Lamps Of Lilac Were There, As I Have Seen Them So Often Before; As They Will Be So Often Again Long After My Grief Is Forgotten. And Still, Though I Know This, And Say This, It Cannot Console Me.