| I had this thought a while ago, |
| ‘My darling cannot understand |
| What I have done, or what would do |
| In
this blind bitter land.’ |
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| And I grew weary of the sun |
| Until my thoughts cleared up again, |
| Remembering
that the best I have done |
| Was done to make it plain; |
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| That every year I have cried, ‘At length |
| My darling
understands it all, |
| Because I have come into my strength, |
| And words obey my call’; |
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| That had she done
so who can say |
| What would have shaken from the sieve? |
| I might have thrown poor words away |
| And
been content to live. |