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