No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
ADAM’S CURSE
We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said: ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.