And calmly in their quiet judicial way,
They tell me that the pictures I have drawn
Of you are fantasies of my poor brain,
And when, if ever, we shall meet again
You will not be a person of the dawn,
Or Love, herself, uprising from the spray.
2.
But I can laugh with them at their good jokes,
Knowing they are not serious, and reply
That heaven is something less than a wild sky,