Another Weeping Woman by Wallace Stevens

Pour the unhappiness out

From your too bitter heart,

Which grieving does not sweeten.

Poison grows in this dark.

It is in the water of tears

Its black blooms rise.

The magnificent cause of being,

The imagination, the one reality

In this imagined world

Leaves you

With him for whom no phantasy moves,

And you are pierced by a death.

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