How shall I hold my soul, that it may not
be touching yours? How shall I lift it then
above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all-forgot
with some lost hing the dark is isolating
on some remote and silent spot that, when
your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.

You and me — all that lights upon us, though
brings us together like a fiddle-bow
drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song.