There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart br só heavy, if he had a hundred years br & more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time br Henry could not make good. br Starts again always in Henry's ears br the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime. br br And there is another thing he has in mind br like a grave Sienese face a thousand years br would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly, br with open eyes, he attends, blind. br All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; br thinking. br br But never did Henry, as he thought he did, br end anyone and hacks her body up br and hide the pieces, where they may be found. br He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing. br Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up. br Nobody is ever missing.