Robert Louis Stevenson "The Relic Taken, What Avails the Shrine?" The relic taken, what avails the shrine? The locket, pictureless? O heart of mine, Art thou not worse than that, Still warm, a vacant nest where love once sat? Her image nestled closer at my heart Than cherished memories, healed every smart And warmed it more than wine Or the full summer sun in noon-day shine. This was the little weather gleam that lit The cloudy promontories - the real charm was That gilded hills and woods And walked beside me thro' the solitudes. The sun is set. My heart is widowed now Of that companion-thought. Alone I plough The seas of life, and trace A separate furrow far from her and grace.