Only of what I stole am I bereft.

The heart exaggerates. I have not lost
despite the wind and weather, no, nor shall,
more than the heart must lose, no more at most
than when a thief cries thief, no more at all.
What can be shared seems never a full share
until by justifiable grand theft
each in his guilt has tenderness to spare.
Only of what I stole am I bereft.

That which once was, is now again my own,
It was my own affection stolen back
that seemed so sweet, the known returned unknown;
I gave that I might measure my own lack,
she hers. The rest was social wind and weather:
the storm that forced still holds our lives together.

[R.P. Blackmur, II. Wind and Weather from 'Dedications', in American Sonnets: An Anthology]

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