Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare, That does not slake thirst, is not wet. Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer. Is it mine to forget? On how many desert roads have searched I With him who wasn't dear for me, How many bows gave in church I For him, who had well loved me. I've become more oblivious than inviting, Quietly years swim. Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling -- Nothing will give me back him.