Suppose I say the hardest thing to say.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
I have known the eyes already, known them all—
And yet I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move
Nor can entreat one other tear to fall.
Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent,
Yet no more can be due to me.
What before pleased us, takes but one sense,
And that so lamely, as it leaves behind
A kind of sorrowing dullness to the mind.
And indeed, there will be time,
The words don't matter, I'm saying
Though the inner eye can't hold
Two views at once, there's still the nagging sense
That with a blink, the picture could change back.
This isn't the touch of my lips to yours, but this is the murmur of yearning;
This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.
These are the words that lurk between the words I say:
She was my North, my South, my East and West
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

"Farewell to Love" y "Lovers' Infiniteness" de Donne, "Funeral Blues" de Auden, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" de Eliot, 19 de "Tou You" de Whitman, "The Rubin Vase" y "Fontanel" de Lindner
Thy firm