Yet it brake mine, too.
Lizette Woodworth Reese
FROM A CAR-WINDOW
Pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses;
Gold in a pool, from the western glow;
Spread of wings where the last thrush passes—
And thoughts of you as the sun dips low.
Quiet lane, and an irised meadow ...
(How many summers have died since then?) ...
I wish you knew how the deepening shadow