You are not supposed to see
The one you love naked
If you love her
Only because she is naked.
The philosopher who protests:
“It is the fault of her mind
That I love her this way”
Protests in vain. But let’s be kind,
Even from our highest moral perch,
Elevated further by this poem—
You know I have always been honest with you
In my verses and my mind—
By admitting neither woman nor man
Can be moral but separately,
In the windy night-time of a desert plain
Or when we see too much
In the mind’s garden, alone but happy,
In the bounty of ourselves, sweetly in pain.