, when she is the evening star
s the man whose errant
glance she draws --
, as did the ancients squinting far
Admires her beauty
, knowing not its cause
He who to her that lethal journey
Would find firsthand
, concealed by constant clouds,
s and her endless caustic spate
Yet daily, when herself in flesh she shrouds,
My flights of fancy tell me you are she;
That I am yours; these thoughts weigh down my mind
And threaten, if I shun them, to destroy it.
But if some stormy path to you I find
And brave it, who knows whether there will be
Enough of me left over to enjoy it?
July 12, 2008.