Love is an illness still to be,
Still away, another chill.
We shall measure mercury
Of the rising, falling will,
Of the large and resting heart,
Of the body, not quite still,
Still enough to keep the chart
From reflecting what we feel:
We shall be well, and well apart.
Though my body still will start
When from my milky side you steal,
And breathing is a casual art,
And illness we no longer play
Unless we fill the healer's part.
We will be well, and well away
Until our pulse and pallor tell
That we are ill, of being well.
Comments (0)
Post a Comment