“What are you doing
Now the end is not far?
Remembering? Ruing?”
“No rue, my dear.”

“Are you still seeding?”
“Now and then I do.”
“You are frail for weeding,
And the weeds grow.”

“Yes, the weeds flourish.
Too brief the hours
When I can still nourish
Poems or flowers.”

“The muses have died?”
“Not died. I must be
My own muse beside
My own mystery.

And the memories move
Without warning to break
Happiness, even love
For poetry’s sake.”

“But what will you keep
When you can’t even rhyme?”
“Sleep, my dear, sleep
And a handful of thyme.”

May Sarton

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I adore this poem. May Sarton is someone I wish I had met before she died. She usually wrote in free verse; but when she wrote in meter, her poetry really sang.