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 leveled 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.