I love the way you love the world,
each home along the river, each woman
you covet, passing now or past,
who touches you, whose children
brush your hair.

And you rebound to each, in memory,
a story, a story,
about how God and his devils will not give you
enough lives!

O, you are sad, with the deepest, sorrowful sadness
and withdrawn. How you grieve, love,
when you are not yearning.
Dear, my own

unsolid ground, the Sea and all her ships
are women you are too certain of —
who would not marry you for love.

For who is so cruel to see you,
and would not marry you
for love.