You are loved. If so, what else matters?

When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more.

You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.

We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out; Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.

So up I got in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, "One thing there's no getting by -- I've been a wicked girl," said I; But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!

But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.

Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.