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MY OWN is beautiful as floated perfume is--
The other day she seemed an opening flower--
My own is beautiful as Angel's flesh in springtime--
The other evening all the sun was on my heart--


Save from my own's lips there is no caress--
The spirit's parks are decked below her lips--
In clamour she is the Temple and in the crowd the verge--
The welcoming of my own, the happy season.


The other morning in her sadness was the night of winter--
the voice of my own, the faƫry of sounds--
For all my life she is an opening flower--
my own is beautiful as resurrection is.