If these letters survive us, dear one,
Perhaps some soul wiser and kinder and gentler
Than mine, will see in their lines subtleties they possess
Of which I was unaware, for the yearning
That once had me blind.
Now I ask only that you mind them
As you would the cherished dream of your childhood,
For they arrive from every land and every man of every strain,
And their spirit knows no border or restraint,
Even here in this painful, tragic time.
And prisons do not contain us, though our bones relent!
And trials leave us nameless in infinite number!
And as abundant as stars or grains of sand!
And when death comes with the tide!
And when all, yet, is Love!
And should these letters not arrive in the present
Of that after-age, let that too be is it was always meant,
That they splashed on the rocks and shimmered here briefly,
Is enough for a song without reason that went
Gladly to earth, and sent its every mad joy.