Remains

               
In those days, dear, I didn't often write
letters to you: you know the reason why.
We were so much together: only once
since we were married, did I say goodbye
and leave you for a week, two weeks. And now
it will be months or years: until I die.

Those three epistles that from then survive,
from me to you, are full of joy: they say
(of course) "I miss you," which was true enough –
but it was happy missing: you away,
I gave you details of my jolly life –
till we would meet on the appointed day.

From me to you, no letter. (Well, it was
only a chance that three of mine remain.)
Still, of your dear hand  I have many words
in diaries, and in textbooks I again
have worked on (used your notes); and of your voice
one trivial tape I hear with joy and pain.

"Dear David, my dear husband and lover." –
Just found these words, broad-stroked and very clear
on one page of a diary – not an entry,
but practice for a pen-nib. Something there
you had to write, so wrote your frequent thought.
Ah, that you chose  those words to write, my dear!

So I do have a message from your hand,
the essential one – you love me. I say "love,"
for tenses are small things. When all is done,
and the rocks melt, and Earth forgets to move,
eternity will not forget we were,
and truth will stand – you were, and are, my love.