If only I could live among the
reflections in the water--
for they are more real
than I ever have been.

Though they may disappear
with a churning, gusty wind
or a starless night, aren't they
more perpetual than we?

Perhaps they are ghosts, shadows;
or perhaps they are just as weighed by flesh
as we are--but can we know?
How the grass is certainly greener there!

We are but specters of vapor, imprisoned
in our carcasses. Are we so human
that the intangibles, the ineffables,
the divine ideas are beyond our grasp?

How short life is, dear one! Is it not more fit
to remain for a while, emblazoned in light,
than to wink out of ****** existence
without ever having lived?