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 Remember the days of our first happiness,
how strong we were, how dazed by passion,
lying all day, then all night in the narrow bed,
sleeping there, eating there too: it was summer,
it seemed everything had ripened
at once.
And so hot we lay completely uncovered.
Sometimes the wind rose; a willow brushed the window.
But we were lost in a way, didn't you feel that? The bed was like a raft; I felt us drifting far from our natures, toward a place where we'd discover nothing.
First the sun, then the moon, in fragments, stone through the willow.
Things anyone could see.
Then the circles closed.
Slowly the nights grew cool; the pendant leaves of the willow yellowed and fell.
And in each of us began a deep isolation, though we never spoke of this, of the absence of regret.
We were artists again, my husband.
We could resume the journey.

Poem by John Clare
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