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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=410472" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To D—, Dead By Her Own Hand</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=410472" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My dear, I wonder if before the end <br>You ever thought about a children’s game— <br>I’m sure you must have played it too—in which <br>You ran along a narrow garden wall <br>Pretending it to be a mountain ledge <br>So steep a snowy darkness fell away <br>On either side to deeps invisible; <br>And when you felt your balance being lost <br>You jumped because you feared to fall, and thought <br>For only an instant: That was when I died. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=410472" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>That was a life ago. And now you’ve gone, <br>Who would no longer play the grown-ups’ game <br>Where, balanced on the ledge above the dark, <br>You go on running and you don’t look down, <br>Nor ever jump because you fear to fall.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Howard+Nemerov">Howard Nemerov</a></strong></div>

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