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To wake, not knowing when or knowing how,

but knowing that you’ll soon reach out to me,

would be—to, candid, be—an ecstasy

of which the fates must not allow me now.

For morn would be impossible to fear,

and anything that might come after her,

and any dangers that there ever were

would be mere jokes, if you could but be here.

I’d learn nothing from life if that were so,

save that one thing that no other begets:

save that one lesson that your love abets:

the rapture that you are to merely know.

Orphean fate, certain for all who see

but one worthwhile life: with one like thee.