Your coming I recall: a growing vibrance,

an agitation to the world unknown.

The moon through branches touched the balcony

and there a shadow, lyriform, was thrown.

To me, a youth, the iamb seemed a garb

too rude for the soft languor of your shoulders;

but my imperfect line had tunefulness

and with the red lips of its rhyme it smiled.

And I was happy. On the dimming desk

a trembling flame hollowed my bit of candle,

and in my dream the page was under glass,

immortal, all zigzagged with my corrections.

Not so at present. For the morning star

my morning slumber I will not surrender.

Beyond my strength are multitudes of tasks—

especially the worries of ambition.

I am expert, frugal, intolerant.

My polished verse cleaner than copper shines.

We talk occasionally, you and I,

across the fence like two old country neighbors.

Yes, ripeness is pictorial, agreed:

leaf of grapevine, pear, watermelon halved,

and—top of artistry—transparent light.

I’m feeling cold. Ah, this is autumn, Muse!