Where does a mal-loved go for nourishment?
For the hearth has no heat for her,
It’s colder than the whitest of white Christmases.
Where does a mal-loved go for hope?
For the heart has no song for her,
It’s drier than the ungiving wishing well.
Where does a mal-loved go for sustenance?
For the larder has no stock for her,
It’s emptier than a heart with no song in it.
Where does a mal-loved go?
For the home has no man for her,
It’s barer than a vacant womb.
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