There's been a lot of talk amongst the others;
They say you think you're still alive,
And none of them have the heart
To tell you otherwise.

They say you still gasp for air while you're crying,
And that you still believe in pain
And suffering, and they can't help but run to you
When you call another's name.

Which distresses them deeply, and yet
Whilst they no longer understand what you feel,
They see their former selves within your ghost,
And wish your happiness were real.

I will be the gladdest thing
  Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
  And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
  With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
  And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
  Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
  And then start down!

You’re whispering secrets to stars
and I’m warbling love songs
to confused meadowlarks.

Tennyson is too romantic
for a fool like me.

Maybe I should keep to my tower--
busy fingers making seams
no one can see.

Even if there are curses.

I will still walk
through the green valley
holding a valiant hand.