Pity me not because the
light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and
thicket as the year goes by.
Pity me not the waning of the moon,
Or that the
ebbing tide goes out to sea,
Or that a man's
desire is hushed so soon,
And you no longer look with love on me.
This have I always known: Love is no more
Than the wide
blossom which the wind assails,
Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,
Strewing fresh
wreckage gathered in the gales.
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the
swift mind beholds at every turn.
--from The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems, Edna St. Vincent Millay