Should I grieve with much grieving, Desolately alarmed Because you go, leaving Mirage, cool-throated, cold-armed? Waste the strength of my teeth on stone, taste stone; Moan implacably, moan Now that you go, leaving me emptied, dried out and bleached to the bone? Will not your young hair flow With the same slow stress? And someone else's nostrils know The sharp smell of your sombre nakedness? The pointed larkspur glitter of your eyes drive delicate blue Radiantly through and through Other bleak veins? . . . Yes, leave me! . . . The brute and the blind have need of you -- you! |