Will it hurt if I tell you it was your kindness I fell in love with?
Will it hurt if – all told – your beauty and brains are matters quite secondary right now?
Will it hurt if when we meet again, if ever we do – if now you don’t sue, if soon I don’t rue – it will be the compare and contrast between the pain of wife & lover, and on quite another hand the good of what you were that summer …
… of what I still can dare not to fathom?
And even if I lied to you, and even if I tried to lie, there still is nothing I can say – nor feel nor be nor may nor might – which could honestly resist that sense of home your eyes and face and gentle womb did inspire in me as half-made man; did desire in me as half-lived tomb.
For even so, and even still, I fight my best to this end I see: for I realise what assails me now is not my being, cracked and mad, as half the country easily said, but life itself – that thing we fail to wail correct and proper.
And the sad and bad I feel right now – the memories which, like distant cousins, crowd up and on one at dreary wake – is not me ill in any way, but just the sign of lonely man who never had the hug of nice, of simply undivided life, of eyes as kind as the eyes you blessed …
… the beauty of your good.