All I Can Read

The only thing I can read right now is poetry. Actually, even poetry is hard because it makes me feel, and see, and think. But it is better than the alternative.
Er ist gestorben, und mit ihm mein Herz. With what friend is it worthwhile to exchange thoughts?
Vielleicht wird es leichter werden, aber . . .

Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.