I Seem To Myself, As In A

You Do Not Know Just What You've Been Forgiven.

Who Will Grieve For This Woman? Does She Not Seem Too Insignificant For Our Concern? Yet In My Heart I Never Will Deny Her, Who Suffered Death Because She Chose To Turn.

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

There Is A Sacred, Secret Line In Loving Which Attraction And Even Passion Cannot Cross.

That Was When The Ones Who Smiled Were The Dead, Glad To Be At Rest.