You are rugged dexterity—
My dear, my sweet, my faint divine—
You swerve from temptress to severity,
From strict azure to cloudless cline,
I am left questioning: I am left a mute.
If in hunt I could use your cold skewer;
On love’s carnage we would feast.
But I am left in chase—a pursuer,
Oscillating between man and beast;
I am left paramount: I am left a brute.
You have a delicious insensitivity,
My love, my ghost, my frail shrine—
You rapture as you steal subtlety—
They branch as deltas in infinite shine,
I am left bereft: I am left a truth.
If at the end of time I could say,
That love’s corpse fed our passions well,
I would not advise to from that path stray,
But rather to stay loyal to that tell,
I am left unyielding: I am left a youth.
