I prize the things I lose and say,
“For granted I had taken them.”
I mourn the loss of what is gone
Again forgetting what remains.
The voice is lost; its music lives.
The rose is dead; its leaves are wreathed.
Her body’s far; her touch is close.
And love itself has slumbered on.
The poet, Ozymandian,
Is right in predicting my flaw.
Lamenting, though, “O World! O Life!”
He moved my grief to glum delight.