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I cannot live with You—
It would be Life—
And Life is over there—
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to—
Putting up
Our Life—His Porcelain—
Like a Cup—

Discarded of the Housewife—
Quaint—or Broke—
A newer Sevres pleases—
Old Ones crack—

I could not die—with You—
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down—
You—could not—

And I—Could I stand by
And see You—freeze—
Without my Right of Frost—
Death’s privilege?

Nor could I rise—with You—
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’—
That New Grace

Glow plain—and foreign
On my homesick Eye—
Except that You than He
Shone closer by—

They’d judge Us—How—
For You—served Heaven—You know,
Or sought to—
I could not—

Because You saturated Sight—
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be—
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame—

And were You—saved—
And I—condemned to be
Where You were not—
That self—were Hell to Me—

So We must meet apart—
You there—I—here—
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are—and Prayer—
And that White Sustenance—
Despair—

The infinity of pleasure,
Much to Baudelaire's distaste,
Was not in the fleeting second nor the timelessness of time
The drunkenness of sensation or the breaking of our hearts.
The infinity of pleasure was,
Only, and will only be,
In her eyes.

And as long as she keeps her eyes open,
And you do too,
And as long as neither of you blink,
That split second will indeed last forever - but -
It is in the eyes,
Only the eyes.

You can't possibly have read all these books.

Not one 10th of them.
I don't suppose you use
Your Sevres China every night!?