MINIATURE

For all your gestures, for your gray-blue eyes

And Irish mouth, and hair that makes you child,

When shaken out at evening; for your mirth

And your quick pity, and your mother's breast;

For the great tenderness that you have given

And the rich dreams through purple-flowing night,

The holy lull of effort and the peace

Of a deep love; because of all these things,

Wherever I should be,— beyond what seas

Of an enchanted music, on what isles,

I know not, of a strange irradiance,

In dream or life or death,— dissatisfied

With splendor or white mystery, my heart

Would break — my heart would break — never to hear

Your tones again or feel your hair again

Beneath my lips, or see your lifted eyes

Brimming with all the secrets of the stars!