At least, my dear,
You did not have to live to see me die.

Considering how many things I did that must have caused you pain,
Sweating at certain memories, blushing dark blood, unable
To gather home my scattered thoughts that graze the forbidden hills, cropping the mind-bane,
I cut from the hedge for crook the one disservice
I never did to you,--you never saw me die.

I find in my disorderly files among unfinished
Poems, and photographs of picnics on the rocks, letters from you in your bold hand.
I find in the pocket of a coat I could not bring myself to give away
A knotted handkerchief, containing columbine-seeds.
A few more moments such as these, and I shall have paid all.

Not that you ever--
O, love inflexible, O militant forgiveness, I know
You kept no books against me! In my own hand
Are written down the sum and the crude items of my inadequacy.

It is only that there are moments when for the sake of a little quiet in the brawling mind I must search out,
Recorded in my favour,
One princely gift.
The most I ever did for you was to outlive you.
But that is much.

Edna St. Vincent Millay