In Vain

Oh, for a world empty of you, Quite bare of anything. With any likeness to the old. For wild remembering!

A world so wholly different, I would be different too. And read, or mend, or plant the bulbs, Without a thought of you.

But this can never be at all; Some small thing thereabout Would bring that same hurt back again, And tear my wild heart out.

Perhaps the smell of yarrow flowers, Of yarrow flowers set In a lost field. White: yarrow flowers. Out in the August wet.