φíλa μϵυ ȍτ’ ηυ μϵθ‘ ημωυ, φíλα δϵ καì θαυουσ‘ ϵτ‘ ϵσται.

BECAUSE he had no thought of her
Nor found the time without her long,
Her coming was a perfect gift,
Her singing in his heart a song.
’T was not as though she gave herself,
Rather, it seemed, she went his way,
To show him through the darkened years
A passage to the day.
The night he learned that she was dead
He had no need to shed a tear,
Since she, now grown a part of him,
Was with him everywhere.
He drew the blinds and lit the fire,
Knowing all things were garnered there:
A chorus of Euripides,
Her step upon the stair.
H. S. V. JONES