By W. S. Merwin

Let me imagine that we will come again
when we want to and it will be spring
we will be no older than we ever were
the worn griefs will have eased like the early cloud
through which the morning slowly comes to itself
and the ancient defenses against the dead
will be done with and left to the dead at last
the light will  be as it is now in the garden
that we have made here these years together
of our long evenings and astonishment