Winnie-the-Pooh and Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Among a plethora of poets, these two stand out in framing what the “bear of very little brain”–and so much heart–understood as the exquisitely lacerating inseparability of love and grief once the one we love is no longer within reach of our suddenly achingly restrictive five senses.
“How lucky I am,” pondered Winnie-the-Pooh, “to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
(My bear friend did not mean a permanent goodbye. . . but then, neither do I.)
“A Fearful and Beautiful Thing,” although that amalgamation may not fully emerge until separation.
Love as catastrophic good fortune.
How lucky I was.
A hand that can be clasp’d no more—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.