After all, my earstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished? - Edna St. Vincent Millay

My heart is warm with friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

Strong sun, that bleach
The curtains of my room, can you not render
Colourless this dress I wear? — This violent plaid
Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe
Of thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds done
Through indolence, high judgments given in haste;
The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.