I loved you more than ever you loved me:
What's to be done with all this bright excess?
You don't need it, and want it even less.
It clamors in me, crying to be free,
To seek, to find, to worship and adore,
A river dammed, held back against its choice,
A singer silenced, aching for her voice,
A butterfly caught and cocooned once more.

I hold no grudge; you gave what you could give,
Accepted what your heart had room to take.
Sometimes, it seems, the gods are pleased to make
A heart like mine, almost too full to live,
And send it one like you (their jest above),
A heart formed more to be loved than to love.