The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

The music is part of the song though it be sung,
The other hand is silent 'Til the other side finds
its master-The man that gives, knows all.

Thus close to the truth (grab it, and run!),
how come no one has seen such a sight for years?
The stranger the disaster, the farther a word.

Patience existed among women who rejected them,
now they're our lovers again, like Mercedes.
Or are they? They are our mates, and we are their master.

Such people are in themselves no disaster,
but the dead are involved, they are all involved,
and the end of the world is near.

You are inside of me, and I do not
care what you do, for I do it to look after you.
Then you, my father, there on the sad height,
Stripped bare by the tide, is a disaster.