‘My darling cannot understand
What I have done， or what would do
In this blind bitter land.‘
And I grew weary of the sun
Until my thoughts cleared up again，
Remembering that the best I have done
Was done to make it plain；
That every year I have cried， ‘At length
My darling understands it all，
Because I have come into my strength，
And words obey my call‘；
That had she done so who can say
What would have shaken from the sieve？
I might have thrown poor words away
And been content to live.