Dull centurion, genitor, I’m tired of your dire gates, The journeys East, the plums and dates, I can not fight your sunset war. And you, Cleopatra from New York,
My head is spinning. Where are you, And where’s your sweetness now? When will I taste your fallen glow, Or kneel to kiss your hands of dew Which bear the morning light? No: never …
Your face is there, your smile, your ways, Those lovely eyes that you have got, But not the passion, no, and not The searing tenderness which days And days saw burnt like matchsticks in
Before mature emotions come to plant In me their sense or blindness, I will speak This thought (no doubt condemned within a week). I write this to my wife. Although I can’t