Time does not bring relief; you all have lied 
Who told me time would ease me of my pain! 
I miss him in the weeping of the rain; 
I want him at the shrinking of the tide; 
The old snows melt from every mountain-side, 
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; 
But last year's bitter loving must remain 
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. 
There are a hundred places where I fear 
To go,-so with his memory they brim. 
And entering with relief some quiet place 
Where never fell his foot or shone his face 
I say, "There is no memory of him here!" 
And so stand stricken, so remembering him." 
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems