"I think you hardly know the tender rhyme Of 'Trust me not at all or all in all!'" There are some wounds, O, my friends, that Time, by himself, with no clever physician to help him, will surely cure.

You all know that, do not you?
some wounds that he will lay his cool ointment on, and by-and-by they are well.

Among such, are the departures hence of those we have strongly loved, and to whom we have always been, as much as in us lay, tender and good.

But there are others that he only worsens--yawning gaps that he but widens; as if one were to put one's fingers in a great rent, and tear it asunder.

And of these last is mine.
As the year grows apace, as the evenings draw themselves out, and the sun every day puts on fresh strength, we seem to grow ever more certainly apart.