I can no longer grant myself to drift
Through the photographs I forgot to forget,
Through those I now again desire to sift,
Through those I should have taken, alas,

And watch thee fixing me, and me thee still,
And let all motion falter into rest,
Though naught around us ever bends to will.
How much would it yet wound thee, at a guess,

If I had cheek enough to speak it plain,
To tell thee that I bind my hands and feet
With a single cord, and yield me to the strain
Of sirens skilled in naught but naming thee?

I can no longer grant thee leave to roam
Through thoughts I dare not loose to letting go,
Through those I know no longer how to frame
Without dull pomp, or pride, or foolish gloat.