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Time does not bring relief.
You all have lied Who told me
that time would release me of my pain.
I miss him in the weeping of the rain.
I want him at the shrinking of the tide.
The old snows melt from every mountainside
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear to go
So with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shown his face
I say, There is no memory of him here
And so stand stricken, So remembering him.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
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