"You are like a god to me; for me
The good is you." N'est-ce pas?
You are dear to all who know you
And to me. You are all my good.
Seeing you there with your throat
And your eyes, all in down habits;
Eyes that I myself would wish for,
Eyes that are narrow, like rats's-eyes;
Seeing into your eyes, and, ah!
Down your throat; and your voice,
How it seems to dance with laughter;
And your wide soul, that contains
All pleasure and goodness;
I gasp; I am just a boy, a moron;
Now, after your dance, seeing as your eyes
Are upon me, what can I do
But wish that it may always be so?
Or would you have my eyes to weep always?
Oh eyes, no eyes, but in the mind you appear,
And then I seem to hear that voice ...
You mean so much to me--just to hear
You talking with a vowel in your throat!
I like you more than I can say;
There is no word can mean so much!
I'm sorry for that. I have sounded
The bowels of all my talking:
It sounded great; it's no longer possible.
You are a word.