I thought you were comparable,
A thing of shining worth;
But you are small compared to skies
Which turn around the earth,
And you are mean, and savage, too,
Compared to spring and blooms,
And crueller than the dreams I knew
Or meadow-bearing rooms.
God grants me peace, you grant me hurt,
And so I shall remain
In love through light and summer storms
And leaves laden with rain.
I'll leave you now to winter's past
While I'm alive and well,
And wander through the amber grass
And oceans' swirling swells.