In Vain

Oh, for a world empty of you,
Quite bare of anything,
With any likeness to the old,
For wild remembering!

A world so wholly different,
I would be different too,
And read, or mend, or plant the bulbs,
Without a thought of you.

But this can never be at all;
Some small thing thereabout
Would bring that same hurt back again,
And tear my wild heart out.

Perhaps the smell of yarrow flowers,
Of yarrow flowers set
In a lost field. White yarrow flowers,
Out in the August wet.