She came from the feminine sea,
Like creation emerging from creation,
To be loved by an affectionate and useful man,
Who, when most useful, pleases her with musical poetry,
Chiming with love that unites a broken nation.
You cannot love her, but I can.
He made books and locks, the rain against the sea;
I need them, like food—each evening of each day,
Because I hide in a house made by wandering man,
Unable to find pleasure on what I lie on; you see
The mountains that ring, like clouds, this rainy valley?
You cannot love her, but I can.
She is all that a woman intends to be
When birds arrive at the back of the day
To holler at you, a masculine, philosophical man,
Who strives each day to write poetry
That can make itself into something anyone can say.
You cannot love her, but I can.
