Here am I-breathing,
And Writing my poetry
What were you to me?
A land forgotten and remote,
a land of knights and high plateaux.
Sometimes I'll come when you're asleep,
An unexpected visitor.
Don't leave me outside in the street.
Don't bar the door!
Fernandéz is killed!
is dead and buried
Spring of mine, O spring of mine so white,
as yet unlived, as yet unfeasted,
alone in visions vague yet dreamt of,
how low above the poplars do you skim,