Full half a life ago, my better half, We turned our backs, no more to make one beast, And strode or shuffled, each his darkling path, You to the West, and I to time-worn East. What of it now? What difference does it make, When soon our years are quaintly writ in stone? What difference, whether wisdom or mistake, When we are laid alike, though each alone? If memory serves, it serves but to conceal, Distort, dissolve, deny the life we shared, Detritus of a dream we took for real, That evermore we would, as once we cared. This too will pass. And we, we too will pass. We too will pass, we two. All flesh is grass.