Now more than ever divided,
Loving and yet not loving,
A worshiper of your gentleness,
Demanding my own aloofness;
Now more than ever divided,
Two of myself, two in you;
Reared as a tower of granite
Bright on the last blue hill,
Crumbled and rooted with wild-flowers
Under the touch of your hand,
Torn as a leaf from a woodvine
Colorfully tossed to the wind,
Caught with dry tendrils of yearning
Close to an ancient wall.