Not with a club, the Heart is broken Nor with a Stone – A Whip so small you could not see it I've known - Emily Dickinson

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.

Down Time’s quaint stream
Without an oar,
We are enforced to sail,
Our Port — a secret — Our Perchance — a gale.
What Skipper would
Incur the risk,
What Buccaneer would ride,
Without a surety from the wind
Or schedule of the tide?

This was in the white of the year — that — was in the green — drifts were as difficult then to think
as daisies now to be seen — Looking back is best that is left
or if it be — before — retrospection is prospect’s half,
sometimes, almost more.