You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence, and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, seperate, in the evening.