I turned from side to side, from image to image, to put
       you down,
All to no purpose; for you the rhymes would not ring ---
Not for you, beautiful and ridiculous, as are always the
       true inheritors of love,
The bearers; their strong hair moulded to their foreheads
       as though by the pressure of hands.
It is you that must sound in me secretly for the little
       time before my mind, schooled in desperate esteem,
       forgets you,
And it is my virtue that I cannot give you out,
That you are absorbed into my strength, my mettle,
That in me you are matched, and that it is silence which
       comes from us.