I've been in love for
With what I cannot
And will contrive a
For the
That has no mould or shape,
From which there's no escape,
It's not even a name,
Yet is all constancy;
Tried or untried the same,
It cannot part from me;
A breath yet as
As the established hill.
It is not any thing,
And yet all being is;
Being, being, being,
Its burden and its bliss.
How can I ever
What it is I love?
This happy happy
Is seiged with crying sorrows,
Crushed beneath and
Between todays and morrows;
A little
Held in the world's vice.
And there it is
As careless as a child,
And in
Flourishes sweet and wild:
In wrong, beyond
All the world's day long.
This love a moment knownfor what I do not
And in a moment
Is like the happy
That keeps its perfect
Between the tiger's
And vindicates its his collection,
The Voyage(1946)
