And yet, what I have sought that I have sought And cannot disavouch for my own pang, Or be another father to the girl Than he who let her run the woods alone Looking for stones that have no business there. For Harriet sees a dozen kinds of pain. And some are blessed, being legitimate, And some are cursed, being outside a law: But she and I see only pain itself And are hard-hearted with our epitaphs, And yet I wish I could not hear that cry. I know that it will pass because all things Pass but the search that only ends with breath, And, even after that, my daughter and I May still get up from bondage, being such Smoke as no chain of steel-bright cries can chain, To walk like Indian Summer through the woods And be the solitaries of the wind Till we are sleepy as old clouds at last.