For MW

There is no transcience of twilight in      The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face,      No flicker of a slender flame in space,

In crucibles, fragility crystalline.

There is no fragrance of the jessamine      About you, no pathos of some old place      At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eater

Beneath the touch.

Nor has there ever been.

Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise      In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul             Which burst its bondage in a bold travail;

Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise,      Your face, sweetly efflgent of the whole,      Inviolate of ways that would feile.