whatisdone Author's note: This is a traditonal poem, about a classic subject. I'm not sure what time period the sad lady occupies, but it is one where the upper class is dedicated to presenting a calm, cool, and correct face to the world, despite what passions and pains they experience.

'What is Done' refers both to the love affair that has ended, and to the actions that are expected from a member of her class. To give in to grief, loss, and jealousy simply 'is not done.'

What Is Done

Sunlight slanted through the window,
the room was warm and bright.
Once again she read the message
that had come last night.
"This should not be so hard," she thought.
"Tis nothing but a note."
She dipped her quill into the ink
and then she slowly wrote.

"How kind of you to write to me,
and yes, I understand.
The heart will go it's merry way
despite what we demand.
But do not worry that I grieve
since you have gone away.
Take comfort if you can, my dear,
in what I have to say."

"I do not miss your sweet laugh,
nor the smile that lit your face.
I do not miss your gentleness,
nor yet your warm embrace.
I do not miss the tender words
you whispered in my ear..."
A crystal droplet hit the page,
another salty tear.

The lady snatched the paper up,
and threw it to the floor.
There it joined a crumpled heap
of half a dozen more.
Another sheet was set in place.
She rubbed her eyes, and sighed.
Then once again she wrote the words
demanded by her pride.

"How kind of you to write to me..."