That roll across me like an open sea
Until they break like riptides on a reef
And leave me longing for what used to be.
Sometimes I curse my own inconstancy
That lets me for a moment cease my grieving,
Which should, it seems, seize me eternally
Beyond the bounds of being or believing.
But then I recognize that such a heaving
Is unsustainable; I cannot weep
Forever. It is not my sorrow leaving
That helps me to recover, and to keep
A happy face more often, but this balm:
The sea will also sometimes see a calm.
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