Never let me lose the marvel

    of your statue-like eyes, or t

    tary rose of your breath

    places on my c night.

    I am afraid of being, on this shore,

    a brancrunk, and  regret

    is having no flower, pulp, or clay

    for the worm of my despair.

    If you are my reasure,

    if you are my cross, my dampened pain,

    if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

    never let me lose w I have gained,

    and adorn the branches of your river

    ranged Autumn.