when both love and friendship fail,
We cry for duty, work to do;
Some end to gain beyond the pale
Of self, some height to journey to.
And then, before our task is done,
With sudden weariness oppressed,
We leave the shining goal unwon,
And only ask for rest.
I have become an orchid
washed in on the with salt beach.
What can I make of it now
that might pleased you–this life, already wasted
and still strewn with miracles?
_Mary Rufle b 1952