How can you all go talking to my lovely
And violating the intimate sanctity
Of her white silence, telling my pale lovely
Of her rare beauty in the poor words that be.
While I who have some power to drill these words,
As fiery emblems of our intimacy,
Into a host more paramount than swords,
Yet fear to finger such proud delicacy,
And only want to bow down low my head
If even distantly I see her form,
Or suddenly feel stabbed by eyes, deep-spread
Of foam and shadow like a sea in storm,
Wondering with my hand across my mouth
That snow-quiet peace should rule such fire-born youth.