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, you’ll never suspect.
All this to you, my beloved’s beloved;
My own Maud Gonne’s John Macbride, to I, Yeats,
What contrary roles are we behooved,
I, the ground she walks, you, her heavens’ gates.
Such looks, such passion, more than I could be.
I hold no ill-will, no scorn, just envy.