There was nothing separate about her days,
Like drops upon a window-pane, they ran
together and trickled away. . .

Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.

She was always pleased to have him come and
never sorry to see him go.

Every love is the love before
In a duller dress.

Then if my friendships break and bend,
There's little need to cry
The while I know that every foe
Is faithful till I die.