Here is a wound that will never heal; I know.
Being wrought, not of a dearness, or a death,
but of a love turned to ashes
and the breath gone out of beauty;
never again will grow
the grass on that scarred acre,
though I sow young seed there yearly,
and the sky bequeath its friendly weathers down,
far underneath shall be such bitterness of an old woe.

That April should be shattered by a gust,
that August should be leveled by a rain,
I can endure;
and that the lifted dust of man
should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die;
will be a thrust between my ribs forever,
of hot pain.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)