For *** by Vita Sackville-West

        No eyes shall see the poems that I write
        For you; not even yours; but after long
        Forgetful years have passed on our delight
        Some hand may chance upon a dusty song

        Of those fond days when every spoken word
        Was sweet, and all the fleeting things unspoken
        Yet sweeter, and the music half unheard
        Murmured through forests as a charm unbroken.

        It is the plain and ordinary page
        Of two who loved, sole-spirited and clear.
        Will you, O stranger of another age,
        Not grant a human and compassionate tear
        To us, who each the other held so dear?
        A single tear fraternal, sadly shed,
        Since that which was so living, is so dead.