As I weep,
Her power is still overcoming
Each shed drop.
I still love, with a breath that cannot still
Itself, with her fragrance,
Her own breath, a spice and a rose,
And a blush to her cheek,
That I cannot tell to be,
Embarrassment or pleasure.
Face in my palms,
And beauty has now possessed me.
I weep a newborn tear,
To let my feet catch its descent,
When I clear away my hands.
I no longer shield my eyes,
With the palms from a man
Who has done no good.
All I offer is words, and no truth.
Afraid and distant,
Cold, though amorous,
In the sight of her.
I believe I aim to speak,
About the love,
About the peace from tiny doves.
But, I am weak,
Stone-cold, and adjacent to truth,
It is within reach,
And I doubt too much to find it worth a touch.
I feel, and I seal, my heart closed.
As I would die to know my motive.
Modern Romanticism 