In a sentence that must end,
A measurable dividend,
To hold her time against time.
I praise her honest eyes
That keep their beauty clear.
I have nothing to fear
From her, though the world lies,
If I don’t lie. Though the hill
Of winter rise, a silent ark,
Our covenant with the dark,
We will speak on until
The flowers fall, and the birds
With their bright songs depart.
Then we will go without art,
Without measure, or words.