When We First Met And Loved, I

Eve Is A Twofold Mystery.

You Smell A Rose Through A Fence: If Two Should Smell It, What Matter?

Folded Eyes See Brighter Colors Than The Open Ever Do.

Who So Loves Believes The Impossible.

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.