From beyond the grave...

The woman's been dead since 1950. And yet, somehow she still manages to say in a few words what I would spend ten years trying to come up with:

Not dead of wounds, not borne
Home to the village on a litter of branches, torn
By splendid claws and the talk all night of the villagers,
But stung to death by gnats
Lies Love.

What swamp I sweated through for all these years
Is at length plain to me.

Edna St. Vincent Millay