no summer cloud has ever seemed so soft;
no bright blue day has ever been so fine —
no other thing that’s flown or held aloft
has ever been so fleeting in design.
and passion flows from me to who-knows-where;
your whims might take you anywhere at all —
and leave my soft’ning thoughts out on the air
to realize my place, and then to fall.
for such is your capriciousness to me:
i study it, but know it less and less —
your liberty is its own probity,
and past my feeble ken, i must confess.
but all that flies away in rhapsody
those times you open up yourself to me.