We've looked and looked, but after all where are we? Do we know any better where we are, And how it stands… — Robert Frost

Love at the lips was touch

As sweet as I could bear;

And once that seemed too much;

I lived on air

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

The birds that came to it through the air

At broken windows flew out and in,

Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh

From too much dwelling on what has been.