I had this thought awhile ago,

“My darling cannot understand

What I have done, or what would do

In this blind bitter land.”

And I grew weary 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 sieve?

I might have thrown poor words away

And been content to live.