But sometimes you are older than the stars.
Your eyes are made that way: new light is drawn
From the piled gold where ancient suns have gone,
When your gaze reaches mine. Immersed in wars,
I seek rebellion, fearing to rebel;
And sigh, not yet desirous of relief;
And grieve, not yet relinquishing my grief;
And love the more—I who have loved so well.
II.
I love you. But it is a sorry task