The afternoon fills the grey wood
With a faint milk of mists.
As we walk some cloud suggests
A pink soft sheaf. And I would
Suddenly I were dead,
So that all were out of your mind
That love is in hope to find
And so we seek: that freed
Of all but being, you stood
With a vacant glance,
Or might in the grey air dance
With cheeks that match the cloud:
That within the cold wood
Like a vast eye at gaze,
A miraculous life that strays
Through votive solitude,
You loitered: that fever over,
To which my passion lit
Dry sticks of unlucky wit,
And the silence were your lover.