Beauty streamed into my hand In sunlight through a pane of glass; Now at last I understand Why suns must pass. I have held a shadow -- cool Reflection of a burning gold, And it has been more beautiful Than hands should hold. To that delicate tracery Of light, a force my lips must name In whispers of uncertainty, Has answered through me in a flame. Beauty is a core of fire To reaching hands; even its far Passing leaves a hurt desire Like a scar. |