she is not of this world.
no more than not of it -
perchance the stray curl caught in the wind
would tell him all that he should know
about the when and why, and how she comes and
how she goes
now in air and then ... far from it
her glance is enough but not as full as
one might try to find on a night
when the moon and the stars and trees bended low,
whispering wind:
"... you might ... "
you might
... if only she would stay!
the night ... into day
her curls a-tumble on her face
and form transcent beyond this space -
smile hid, behind that face
a touch and question: "are you mine?"
resign! ye, to such welcome fate
- or not, perhaps, when known what state
and conditionary trembling
you must yield to
