To be in love Is to touch things with a lighter hand. In yourself you stretch, you are well. You look at things Through his eyes. A cardinal is red. A sky is blue. Suddenly you know he knows too. He is not there but You know you are tasting together The winter, or light spring weather. His hand to take your hand is overmuch. Too much to bear. You cannot look in his eyes Because your pulse must not say What must not be said. When he Shuts a door— Is not there— Your arms are water. And you are free With a ghastly freedom. You are the beautiful half Of a golden hurt. You remember and covet his mouth, To touch, to whisper on. Oh when to declare Is certain Death! Oh when to apprize, Is to mesmerize, To see fall down, the Column of Gold, Into the commonest ash.