Till love exhausts itself, longs
for the sleep of words
my mistress' eyes
to lie on a white sheet, at rest
in the language
let me count the ways
or shrink to a phase like an epitaph
come live
with me
or fall from its own high cloud as syllables
in a pool of verse
one hour
with thee
Till love gives in and speaks
in the whisper of art
dear heart,
how like you this?
love's lips pursed to quotation marks
kissing a line
look in thy heart
and write
love's light fading, darkening,
black as ink on a page
there is a garden
in her face
Till love is all in the mind
O my America!
my new-found land
or all in the pen
in the writer's hand
behold, thou art fair
not there, except in a poem,
known by heart like a prayer,
both near and far,
near and far,
the desire of the moth
for the star
- Carol Ann Duffy