‘My darling cannot understand

    What I have done， or what would do

    In this blind bitter¹ land.‘

    And I grew weary² of the sun

    Until my thoughts cleared up again，

    Remembering that the best I have done

    Was done to make it plain；

    That every year I have cried， ‘At length

    My darling understands it all，

    Because I have come into my strength，

    And words obey my call‘；

    That had she done so who can say

    What would have shaken from the sieve³？

    I might have thrown poor words away

    And been content to live.