Nothing but the faintest blast of wind,
Lighted on my sweat encrusted head:
We fear age closing closely in,
And watch where nighttime leads, n'even led.
My sweet, this fairest whim of youth,
A precious early morning light of day,
What Carmelite contentment awakes your eyes,
A cautious bloom departing months of May.
Your shadow long on terracotta Spain has past,
And eyes reverted now no longer smile,
And melancholy shugs and silences encroach,
And youth so quickly young, so quickly dies.