Let Your Sweet Head Rest in My Hands
Let your sweet head sleep in my hands:
June burns in ruins through your golden hair,
Liana, old sun above the sumac trees.
Your mouth is a poppy on a wall that has lent
Its old and mossy shadow to wandering souls.
A fishermen’s song in the navy blue of the seas —
That is what your drowsy voice is to me,
Your voice, invisible and thoughtful friend.
Your heart is the flowered bed of sweet yesterdays,
The lukewarm, muted bell of rest.
A sky from a long-dead land
Sings in your eyes — the sky of a barren place
Where the pale Anabel, Guy de Ver,
And d’Elormia listen, amid stormy winds,
To October’s sweet chime in the graveyard.
And what does it matter that you are imaginary,
One who never truly existed?
Is my solitude in old and beloved gardens
Any less beautiful or any less enchanting
Than your autumn with its flaming leaves?
