For MW

There is no transcience of twilight in

     The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face,

     No flicker of a slender flame in space,

In crucibles, fragility crystalline.

There is no fragrance of the jessamine

     About you, no pathos of some old place

     At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eater lace

Beneath the touch. Nor has there ever been.

Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise

     In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul

            Which burst its bondage in a bold travail;

Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise,

     Your face, sweetly efflgent of the whole,

     Inviolate of ways that would feile.