Do not read this to the end,
Glance fondly at what I send,
As if it were a picture in a book,
Or a polite, goodbye look.
You hate descriptions to go on;
With a frown you say, “It doesn’t matter, it’s gone.”
You are not one for talk.
You like to sit, or go for a walk.
You are proud, in a moment offended
And when you’re hurt, it’s not easily mended.
I said something a week ago,
Innocent—but yes, I know, I know,
I shouldn’t have said it—
It might fix itself, but you won’t let it.
You are a poem that lasts a year,
But blurs up when I hold it near.
The whole of you is mysterious and vast;
I’m nostalgic for even a week that’s past,
A day, an hour, I look back
With ardor! Take me! I’ll quickly pack.
But when I am packed, ready to go,
I notice I have moved too slow.
You are gone, unsentimental, fast,
In a future of your own, mocking what I loved in our past.
Lovers always under one roof
See each other and never need proof,
But lovers who are often away
Tell each other what they did that day.
But not you. You would rather walk
Among roses than talk.
When you love, it is like a flower opening,
It is like when the shy and talented finally sing,
It is like sunrise, or night descending on her beautiful wing—
But the conditions have to be just right.
You are private and modest, like a church at night.
I stand beside you now, my heart beating fast,
Waiting for you, mysterious! Oh mysterious! and vast!
