I learnt to write to you in happier days, and every letter was a piece I chipped from off my heart, a fragment newly clipped from the mosaic of life; its blues and grays, its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise. To make a pavement for your feet I stripped my soul for you to walk upon, and slipped beneath your steps to soften all your ways. But now my letters are like blossoms pale we strew upon a grave with hopeless tears. I ask no recompense, I shall not fail although you do not heed; the long, sad years still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail, and whisper words of love which no one hears.
Amy Lowell (1875-1925)