Harlan SewallYou never understood,O unknown one,Why it was I repaidYour devoted friendship and delicate ministrationsFirst with diminished thanks,Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you,So that I might not be compelled to thank you,And then with silence which followed uponOur final Separation.You had cured my diseased soul.But to cure itYou saw my disease, you knew my secret,And that is why I fled from you.For though when our bodies rise from painWe kiss forever the watchful handsThat gave us wormwood, while we shudderFor thinking of the wormwood,A soul that’s cured is a different matter,For there we’d blot from memoryThe soft-toned words, the searching eyes,And stand forever oblivious,Not so much of the sorrow itselfAs of the hand that healed it.
You never understood,O unknown one,Why it was I repaidYour devoted friendship and delicate ministrationsFirst with diminished thanks,Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you,So that I might not be compelled to thank you,And then with silence which followed uponOur final Separation.You had cured my diseased soul.But to cure itYou saw my disease, you knew my secret,And that is why I fled from you.For though when our bodies rise from painWe kiss forever the watchful handsThat gave us wormwood, while we shudderFor thinking of the wormwood,A soul that’s cured is a different matter,For there we’d blot from memoryThe soft-toned words, the searching eyes,And stand forever oblivious,Not so much of the sorrow itselfAs of the hand that healed it.