When evening is truly fair
And no words can possibly describe
This evening sweetly and softly rare,
Dusky tops of silky trees swaying
In breezes dearer than music playing,
There is truly something only we two share.
I, the poet, have nothing resembling poetry
To say why sky and dying sun and air
Are beauty breathing as if beauty itself were breath,
And your beauty, your loved beauty,
Like my poetry, is ravished by this
Life lying down beside a breeze-kissed death.
A poet reduced to words like “breeze” and “kissed!”
A beauty merely human inside a mystical mist.
Humbled by comparison to fairest weather,
My poetry and your beauty lie down together,
And here beside a fragrant, moon-lit vine,
We kiss. And on our humbled kisses dine.
