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