I have worked all these years, have seen
the seasons change little behind window panes, working
for the car, for papers, doctors, for food and the house.
Doing not what I ought to have done, but neither
what I should have done; not with the slow mind
of the wise, nor with bright eyes,
nor with a glad heart.
But the dark water beyond the future,
the still lake that lies unvisited there,
of that I knew how to speak; and you
that hesitate over these words should know:
behind the proud complaint and the feeble anger
it is one in you and me.
