I often read a poem that I wish I had the skill and patience to write. Poetry is a form that requires constant honing and practise and probably an aptitude too. But if you read widely enough and write often enough you are likely to become at least competent, and that is why I am not.

I was going through a box of letters and postcards yesterday and found a few love letters from a lovely woman I knew 30 years ago. They were passionate and sincere and for me, deeply flattering, in the sense that I was the target of her affection. I will say no more about that relationship, for I do not want to compromise either of our circumstances in the present.

But, this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, is the one I would like to have written for her then.

Sonnet XXIV

'When you, that at this moment are to me
Dearer than words on paper, shall depart,
And be no more the warder of my heart,
Whereof again myself shall hold the key;
And be no more—what now you seem to be—
The sun, from which all excellences start
In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart
Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea;
I shall remember only of this hour—
And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep—
The pathos of your love, that, like a flower,
Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep,
Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed,
The wind whereon its petals shall be laid.'