Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
by George William Russell
AS from our dream we died away
Far off I felt the outer things;
Your wind-blown tresses round me play,
Your bosom’s gentle murmurings.
And far away our faces met
As on the verge of the vast spheres;
And in the night our cheeks were wet,
I could not say with dew or tears.
As one within the Mother’s heart
In that hushed dream upon the height
We lived, and then we rose to part,
Because her ways are infinite.