The light flower leaves its little core 
Begun upon the waiting bough. 
Again she bears what she once bore 
And what she knew she re-learns now. 

The cracked glass fuses at a touch, 
The wound heals over, and is set 
In the whole flesh, and is not much 
Quite to remember or forget. 

Rocket and tree, and dome and bubble 
Again behind her freshened eyes 
Are treacherous. She need not trouble. 
Her lids will know them when she dies. 

And while she lives, the unwise, heady 
Dream, ever denied and driven, 
Will one day find her bosom ready, 
That never thought to be forgiven.