Some spoke of her unostentatious beauty;
she, passionate moralist, Truth’s sweet secretary.
No-one hear the sobbing of the angels.
Well, I have my own weeping to do.
(If angels could weep they would become human.)
I lived her life and she lived mine –
not only in the easy valleys of Pretend
where bosky paths descend to lake where no swan
is singular (and fish ignore the hunched Angler)
but here where the uphill road to happiness
has ordinary speed limits,
and still the revelation is
that there can be such a thing
until it must yield to a dead end.
So now our marriage book is drowned
(there seemed magic in it)
and she is both manifest and concealed –
manifest because I see her everywhere,
concealed because she is nowhere to be found.
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