So come, the harp back to your heart again!
You are a poem, though your poem's naught.
The best of all you showed before, believe,
Was your own boy-face o'er the finer chords
Bent, following the cherub at the top
That points to God with his paired half-moon wings.
HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY
I only knew one poet in my life:
And this, or something like it, was his way.
You saw go up and down Valladolid,