Give me a sign.
Rosalinda, are you definitely mine?
I will wait all day,
So take your time.
But definitely say:
Definitely mine.
The world is a point,
In the middle of a line,
I made a point with a black pen fine.
The point must be (what if you decline?)
Definitely Rosalinda is mine.
There will be a day,
Darker than the rest,
In which a sight, spied,
Glimpsed for a moment,
A vision spotted between bare oak and pine,
Regains our complicity; the vision: hulking you in a wide
Wood telling me you are definitely mine.
Rosalinda! the moon’s slow, unfolding line—
Orbit invisible! Untouchable, the ending, white.
Look, among the tops of the trees,
Like a Renaissance painting, the moon leaves.
Oh, Renaissance sight.
In a bright space, which shadows define,
Where her shadows define my shadows,
Defining more shadows,
Where leaf and leaflet curiously intertwine,
Time agrees with the mole on the hill,
The window sill. And I told her this is definitely mine.