THE ETCHER
Unconsciously you sketched it in,
The supple throat, the firm, sweet chin,
The hair, wood-brown, leaf-brown unrolled
But hesitating into gold,
The face—a flying face and young ...
Lashingly deep the acid stung,
Charring my soul’s most stubborn plank,
A long way in it burned and sank.
Your tool cut sure, your tool cut deep!