I sat in a garden, most serenely, and watched the clouds pass and wind blow through the trees. I sat on a wall and began to write, as rain came through and brought with it, the night.
Day that is a day,
that grows and breaks and dawns again
anew,
before, as after, evening. Day that is
a day and as like those days that went
before, and those many days to come
and yet, between so many,
is as yet alike no other. Day that is
a day so new and just the same
as those to be, and those that were,
which now is here but soon is gone
again,
to come again, and grow and break
and crack the dawn-
know that, as you change
and turn to take your leave, so I do also,
change and turn toward another-
and though I may forget
how you did make me something else
for what you were and brought to me
and maybe- maybe- how slight, at times,
it seemed or felt I may have hated thee;
Yes, hated, for your transparency;
that I always knew that you might change
and were born just so that you might leave,
and in your wake would follow steps
in sadness,- know that though I may forget
for every day that did desert me,
I yet loved you like no other.
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