In what sense
I am I
a minor observer
as in a dream
absorbed in the interior,

a beardless youth
unaccountably
remote yet present
at the action
reminding me faintly
of Prufrock. . . .
a diminutive figure
barely discernible
seemingly ageless
escapes me.

The original impulse
to sing
compressed
into one exultant note
breaks out
of the chest-space,
vibrating along
the shoulders
in the presence
of full-bodied
womanliness,
the eyes dark
in the inner scene,
the hair long
and black,
our dark lady,
inmate of courtship.

She does not speak.
She is nameless.
The reason for her
presence there
is unknown.

A shepherd,
vaguely associated,
stands
at a distance
under
a birch tree,
causally,
playing a flute.
Sweetness
streams across. . . .
also
from the balance
and the position
of each,
it issues.

Neither moves.
The scene
is not matter
that can pall
or diminish.
Its secret holds
as fast as I.

As in Giorgione
the suspense
is eternal.