A poem from Donald Hall's collection Without (poems written about his wife, Jane Kenyon, concerning her illness and death), which for some reason especially struck me today:
He hovered beside Jane's bed,
solicitous: "What can I do?"
It must have been unbearable
while she suffered her private hurts
to see his worried face
looming above her, always anxious to do
something when there was
exactly nothing to do. Inside him,
understood that if he was good -- thoughtful,
reproach, perfect -- she would not leave him.
(Alternate lines beginning with the first are indented, but I don't seem to be able to make them do this for me . . .)