A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The

Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You Are Untranslatable Into Any One Tongue.

We Are All Carousers And Loose Women Here; How Unhappy We Are Together!

You Thought I Was That Type: That You Could Forget Me, And That I'd Plead And Weep And Throw Myself Under The Hooves Of A Bay Mare, Or That I'd Ask The Sorcerers For Some Magic Potion Made From Roots And Send You A Terrible Gift: My Precious Perfumed Handkerchief. Damn You! I Will Not Grant Your Cursed Soul Vicarious Tears Or A Single Glance. And I Swear To You By The Garden Of The Angels, I Swear By The Miracle-working Ikon, And By The Fire And Smoke Of Our Nights: I Will Never Come Back To You.

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

Forgive Me, That I Manage Badly, Manage Badly But Live Gloriously, That I Leave Traces Of Myself In My Songs, That I Appeared To You In Waking Dreams.