It is true that you live on a cold continent,
A mental climate of your own.
More than the shape of a cloud
You cannot expect,
The occasional magic of a storm of snow-
You can ask no more of it.
This is your island, created by yourself,
Set in a space without horizon:
A ship might offer escape,
A waving human arm might tempt with hope,
Might pull the little stone out of your breast
And substitute the magic and disaster of a face.
Now you have won this island,
Protect it with your utmost strength.
Pillow your head on your arm.
And for your loneliness at night,
And for your terrors,
There is a certain morning,
And for that question with no answer,
The careless comfort of the elements.
May Sarton (1912 - 1995)