Do they regard the folk they were and not
The circumstance which showed their meeting must
Be what it was and what it turned to just
As surely as their lives were earth for aught
Some blind mischance might honey comb that sought
The grave between them, they the witless dust,
Whose birth and growth and love, decay and trust,
The wound ordained must greet the death it brought?

Too intricately webbed with misery,
Too far apart and helpless with despair,
They wait they know not for what wizardry
To touch each other, vivify, repair
And join the lonely beings that they are
A little closer to the one they were.