Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.

All the little emptiness of love!

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.

Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress; and love has changed to kindliness.

And I shall find some girl perhaps, and a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, and lips as soft, but true, and I dare say she will do.

I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.