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You in your stone home where the sycamore
More than I see you sees you, where luck's grass
Smoothes your bare feet more often, even your glass
Touches your palm and tips to your lips to pour
Whatever is in it into you, through which door
O moving softness do you just now pass—
Your slippers' prows curled, red and old—alas
With what soft thought for me, at sea, and sore?

Stone of our situation! Iron and stone,
Younger as days to years than the house, yet might
Wé stare as little haggard with time's roil...
Who in each other's arms have lain—lie—one
Bites like an animal, both do, pause, and bite,
Shudder with joy, kiss... the broad waters boil!


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 5 Sep 2008 2:30 PM | Viewed: 1620 times

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