I wrote a sonnet to our transient love,
Another to the joys of your embrace,
And yet another picturing your face
And now I ask, What did those tributes prove?
They will recall this youthful love to me
Someday, unless I lose them all ere then,
Or burn them, or decide I hate all men.
What words can parallel a memory?
I see you now: a tender heart and new,
A charming portrait delicately drawn--
But who's to say that later, when you're gone,
I might not love another part of you?
A rhyme exists much longer than desire,
And yet, I think I favour passion's fire.

May 1957