Does my love live? Or do I live my love?
For there’s two of her that to me is one.
She is all those ideal things I speak of;
Herself of me, my seriousness undone
By her sweet words; applied to her, are paired:
The utter unreality of us.
One life, one love, in each of us declared,
Our public lives a kind of death by contrast,
Dark soil to the perpetual fruitfulness
Of that to whom to each other we are
That faithfully attends our separateness;
Life’s knife and fork that carves into our singular,
Fond mutuality that all the while
Makes no distinction between smile and smile.