On second thought, this is a stanza from the poem “Her Long Illness” by Donald Hall. This one has resonated with me the most so far.
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.