For one month afterwards the eye stays true
And sees the other's face held still and free
A narrow vista, and the month runs out.
Too young, this eye will claim the merit of
A faithful sentry frozen at his post
And not a movement seen; yet ranges over
Far other tracts, its object lost, corrupt.
Nor should I now swell to halloo the names
Of feelings that no one need to remember,
Nor caper with my posy of wilted avowals
To clutter up your path I should wish clear.
Perhaps it is not too late to crane the eye
And find you, distant and small, but as you are;
Otherwise I will keep you honestly blurred,
Not a bland refraction of sweet mirrors.