For M.W

 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-eaten lace
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 effulgent of the whole,
 Inviolate of ways that would fail.

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