Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss [her] in the weeping of rain;

I want [her] at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

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 [her] memory they brim.

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, “There is no memory of [her] here!”

And so stand stricken, so remembering [her].

-Edna St. Vincent Millay