Of proofs and types—dull things !—for whom
But you am I the lover? Bloom,
O flower, immortal flower, love, love!
Linger about me and above,
Thou perfumed haze of incense-mist!
The air hath circled me and kissed
Here in this room, on mountains far,
Yonder to seaward, toward yon star,
With your own kisses. Yes! I see
The roseate embroidery
Yonder—I know: it seems to give
The lie to me in throat and teeth.
That is the surface: underneath
I live in you: in you I live.
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