A spring
has not passed; not a leaf, or twig hath ceased,

• from the return
  of spring
  arising- in the green flow,
  a thousand years; in the long depth or sleep,
  a pearl rippling,
  in the water.
• Your finger-
  your soft touch
• would not shatter,
  what yesterday, when there was no more-
• nor all the rivers pass. Would you wear, my love,
• or marvel, choke,
• would you of a stream,
  a soft thing, a wisdom as a flower?

• My heart aches, you are there; you are absent.

• HD Hilda Doolittle