Some day, if I should ever lose you,

will you be able then to go to sleep

without me softly whispering above you

like night air stirring in the linden tree?

Without my waking here and watching

and saying words as tender as eyelids

that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,

upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?

Without my touching you and leaving you

alone with what is yours, like a summer garden

that is overflowing with masses

of melissa and star-anise?