There still are kindly things for me to know
Who am afraid to dream, afraid to feel
This little chair of scrubbed and sturdy deal
This easy book, this fire, sedate and slow
And I shall stay with them, nor cry the woe
Of wounds across my breast that do not heal
Nor wish that Beauty drew a duller steel
Since I am sworn to meet her as a foe
It may be, when the devil's own time is done
That I shall hear the dropping of the rain
At midnight, and lie quiet in my bed
Or stretch and straighten to the yellow sun
Or face the turning tree, and have no pain
So shall I learn at last my heart is dead