But you I never understood, Your spirit's secret hides like gold Sunk in a Spanish galleon Ages ago in waters cold. - Sara Teasdale

All this grows bitter that was once so sweet, And many mouths must drain the dregs of it. But none will pity me, nor pity him Whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face. — Sara Teasdale, “Those Who Love,” The Poems of Sara Teasdale (Neeland Media LLC, July 1, 2004)

Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love — But you will not assuage him. He alone Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.