For a Long Illness
by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Where did we store the summer of our love?
Come here and help me find it.
Search as I may there is no trove,
Only a dusty last year’s calendar.
Without your breath in my ear,
Your light in my eye to blind it,
I cannot see in the dark.
Oh, tender
Was your touch in spring, your barefoot voice—
In August we should find graver music and rejoice.

A long Provence of time we saw
For the end—to march together
Through the white dust.
The wines are raw—
Still that we will drink
In the groves by the old walls in the old weather.
Two who were hurt in the first dawn
Of battle; first to be whole again (let’s think)
If the wars grow faint, sweep over…
Come, we will rest in the shade of the Invalides, the lawn
Where there is luck only in three-leaf clover.