You walk in the room and I lose my head,
Walk in the room and you run through my mind.
Some spoken words, a smile, my face turns red,
My courage, my voice, I never find.
What beauty with which you are inflicted,
Such that, by you, my dreams may be wrecked,
Their enduring secrecy, insisted,
My thoughts and feelings, youโll never suspect.
All this to you, my belovedโs beloved;
My own Maud Gonneโs John Macbride, to I, Yeats,
What contrary roles are we behooved,
I, the ground she walks, you, her heavensโ gates.
Such looks, such passion, more than I could be.
I hold no ill-will, no scorn, just envy.