the un-mending wall

When there is none to heal it
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Long, long it stood,
With timbers fashioned strong and true,
It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke;
And I was unaware.

Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;
Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,
For trusted lover proved untrue?

I look at you, and I sigh.
One parting strain, and then away.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And mine is the face you shall look for when you are dying.
I have gone my way and left you free.
And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall.