Phaedra
——– O, never more
Will the dew of spring clothe the grasses,
Or, never more will the violets bloom—to die
Under the frost of night.
I see the shadows falling,
Beneath the deep gardens where I wander;
I hear the whispers of the leaves,
And the air is full of the coming of summer.
I have waited and I wait still
Until the light can shine—
What if the light is as vague as it always was?
What shall I alter, save silence?

• Edna St Vincent Millay