Ten years without you. For so it happens.
Days make their steady progress, a routine
That is merciful and attracts nobody.
Already, like a disciplined scholar,
I piece fragments together, past conjecture
Establishing true sequences of pain;
For so it is proper to find value
In a bleak skill, as in the thing restored:
The long lost words of choice and valediction.
Geoffrey Hill, Selected Poems, Penguin Books, 2006