Invariably, You prefer to come To me in the dark. "You're more my temperature then," You once said. I'm not much of a thermometer, But I am the eurythmy To each syllable you give In such settled shadow. A play of murmurs and fingertips You once named this. Always I see a wreath in your hair, In colors of Persia, Textures of night, And the soft blended lines Of you I know Infallibly.