Here is a wound that never will heal, I know, br Being wrought not of a dearness and a death, br But of a love turned ashes and the breath br Gone out of beauty; never again will grow br The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow br Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath br Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath br Shall be such bitterness of an old woe. br That April should be shattered by a gust, br That August should be levelled by a rain, br I can endure, and that the lifted dust br Of man should settle to the earth again; br But that a dream can die, will be a thrust br Between my ribs forever of hot pain.br br Edna St.