Wait, and be chaste, until the tree by night Below your window blackens a design, A lacquered print—a Hiroshige line— Across the curling, pale, intense twilight. Be still and be reserved until the cows Upon the autumn valley seem to dot The brown as though a brush had laid each spot Of red and white precisely where they browse. A pencil’s point preserves the kiss unkissed… The beauty of our bodies, the refined And tortuous twistings of the humorous mind, Slide day by day into forgotten mist: But you and I, my love, bear these in trust, And may not trade them for a clasp of dust.
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