Here is a Wound that Never will Heal

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know, / Being wrought not of a dearness and a death, / But of a love turned ashes and the breath

Gone out of beauty; never again will grow

The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow

Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath

Its friendly weathers down, far underneath

Shall be such bitterness of an old woe. That April should be shattered by a gust, / That August should be levelled by a rain, / I can endure, and that the lifted dust

Of man should settle to the earth again; But that a dream can die, will be a thrust

Between my ribs forever of hot pain.