She will not read this

I’m sane, I’m sane, I’m sane!

My heart can vouch for me!

For what gray heart can prove

With reasoning, the love

That others cannot feel?

Prove me sane, my heart!

That she be made as real

As what I could, with flesh,

Imagine, long for and caress

What others cannot feel.

Prove me awake, my heart!

I feel she is a dream

With lips that count my

Every breath and sigh what

Small relief belongs to me.

That she could love me

And all this could be real, but

No, she does not count, but

Make her own voice loud, and

I’m sure, this, she does feel:

The voice tells me she’s

Content; that she dreams for

No more than she can feel

That she does not need me, and so

My love won’t be revealed.

But no, this is only

My own dream!

And my poems lose

Their scheme and rhythm

And I forget their theme!

And all that’s left is the voice

And the image of a woman

That I will never touch, and

If I showed her this poem,

I’m sure she won’t feel much.

But I’m glad to see her smile

And if this is not real:

I’m glad that angels manifest

Such an angel in their dreams

And I’m glad this is a poem

That she will never see.