When this, my verse, turns, and comes to its end,
You will be in my arms again.
I wish I could be as simple and as dear
As this verse you are reading here.
If any man could be something else, and still be
Himself, I wish it were this poetry,
Which touches you subtly.
What goes into someone as deeply as light into the eye?
Yet the writer of this is distant and shy.
I would be conveniently everything to you,
Even as I am nothing. Passionate, yet cold,
As young as this moment, but like verse, old;
This, and I, knowing just what to do—
So when this poem turns, and comes to its end,
See? You are in my arms again.
