Each passing season circling round a tree
Leaves, clasping it, a ring; the rings remain,
So seasons past remain about the soul:
And men can trace its former life far less
By tales the tongue may tell, than by the range
And reach of that which circumscribes the mood,
Including or excluding right or wrong.”
XXX.
And then they added: “Might it not be found
That loss of my love was the very means