The lover whose soul shaken
In some decuman billow of bliss,
Who feels his gradual-wading
Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet,
And 'mid love's us-ed converse
Sharp on a mood which all joy sums--An instant's fine compendium
The liberal-leav-ed writ of love;
His abashed pulses beating
At the exigent joy and quick,
Is dumbed, by aiming utterance
Up to the miracle of his fate.
The wise girl, such Icarian
Saved by her confidence that she's small,--As what no kindred word will
Is uttered best by opposite,
Love in the tongue of hate exprest,
And deepest anguish in a jest,--Feeling the infinite must
Best said by triviality,
Speaks, where expression bates its wings,
Just happy, alien, little things;
What of all words is in
Implies in a sweet nothingness,
With dailiest babble shows her
That full speech were full impotence;
And while she feels the heavens lie bare,
She only talks about her hair.
