The dark is thrown Back from the brightness, like hair Cast over a shoulder.
I am alone,
Four years older;
Like the chairs and the walls Which I once watched brighten With you beside me.
I was to waken Never like this, whatever came or was taken.
The stalk grows, the year beats on the wind.
Apples come, and the month for their fall.
The bark spreads, the roots tighten.
Though today be the last Or tomorrow all,
You will not mind.
That I may not remember Does not matter.
I shall not be with you again.
What we knew, even now Must scatter And be ruined, and blow Like dust in the rain.
You have been dead a long season And have less than desire Who were lover with lover;
And I have life—that old reason To wait for what comes,
To leave what is over.
