“Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare,
That does not slake thirst, is not wet.

Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer.

Is it mine to forget?

On how many desert roads have searched I
With him who wasn't dear for me,
How many bows gave in church I
For him, who had well loved me.

I've become more oblivious than inviting,
Quietly years swim.

Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling --
Nothing will give me back him.”