When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .
We can't separate our humanity from our poetry.
For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.
In your patience ye are strong.