I sit beside you, or I watch you walk
Across some room or wander down a street;
I notice that your talk is idle talk
And that you have pale hair and little feet;
I see you have a swift and troubled smile,
And odd secretive glimmerings in your eyes —
And I turn from you, terrified by the guile
Of this suave simple exquisite disguise.
For I have been too shaken by the power
Of what in depths of solitude you have sung
To prize your friendship in a human hour.
I still remember that your spirit flung
Certain gigantic shadows against the sky —
And I have doubts of your mortality!