This wound, I think, that will not mend.
It sits and looks at me and weeps.
She told me she would never bend.

These thoughts that I could not keep penned
Are quiet now; and still she sleeps.
This wound, I think, will not mend.

A letter, a note, I thought to send
To her, to her who comes and reaps.
She told me she would never bend.

No one knows; I have no friend;
I cannot fathom just how deep
This wound that will, I think, not mend.

They told but they could not portend
How widely, vastly, far she creeps.
She told me she would never bend.

They never saw her in the end;
They never saw how vast her sweep
Or this wound that I knew would never mend.
She told me she would never bend.