The hands of time would sooner wring your neck,
my dear, than point you on without a fight.
Men shirk, and bite their wrinkled thumbs, and check
for any hidden bypass in the night;
but such is not to be. So mark this well:
that as we turn like fruit upon the shelf,
and scorn and hate our love, and sprout the cell
of strange disease into the other self,
the wheel turns on; the night is never through.
For more nights plenty shall our sorrows be.
And this I know, however much you pain,
or curse my name, or twist against the chain:
that if you leave, you wish it had been me;
and if I die you wish it had been you.