We came to a grove and you drew me in;
I wondered about our right to wander 
where we would in that wood of old pine, 
my hand in yours and yours in mine. 
Fair was the raiment of cloud overhead. 
Or it was not fair, or it was just 
beginning to clear. In truth all I saw
was your face and the white-capped cove, 
and the old rowboat we dragged into shore. 
In truth, there was no grove, no cove, 
no clouds, no scow—the only nouns 
being voice, face and hands—or, the pine 
and the wood were just active and aching 
verbs. Or, that is all I remember now.