A Perfect Goodbye

Even though, perhaps, tomorrow, As a concerto of Violins is departing along the clock, My green leaves will shine away under any morning's sun. My love will be delicate, sweet, like a red apple, While I, walking back and forth, with my fallen arms in this dimly Room that beyond my eyes I behold the new passion, A story shattered by freighted kisses, will born. Who, now, even as I spoke I am a man in the stream, Faintly gently to sand, could have thought The day is all free along the meadow's line? Shall be another date for tomorrow?