THE QUESTION

            Questi non vide mai l'ultima sera

1
No praise for anything but love
The body rhymes with helpless times
No praise for anything but love.

How often, Sybil, have I wept
To touch the body as I would
How often, Sybil, have I wept

My mind is now the only space
In which your body is at ease
My mind is now the only space

My word is now the only hand
That touches you, that touches you
My word is now the only hand

Your lips are now the only lips
To speak the words that I would speak
And I am not the man to hear

2
No speech in summer. Now the light
Falls upon apple-flower and blue-bell
You are not here. No more am I.

The water rushing past my ears
...