12:21 pm


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.


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