.
Was I not real, tenderly with you?
All my love wrapped in new flower
As you held me, so were you held
And the spring was a bloom dower.

Did we not paint some finer picture,
You and I amid sweet dawning sun,
I make no stories up, nor any later
We were one perfect plateau above.

You my lad, I dreamed feverish true,
Real as dearest, deathly delusions,
Sweet as any meadow which sings
You my lad, I made up a true vision.