The evening was dying and in the wind
the silk of your voice was a piano,
And the condescension of your hand
was just mild discouragement.
And your fingers anointed a Christian
forgiveness, in a subtle sharpening;
the breeze sighed, as in the story
of a summer melancholy.
With your voice, on the fence of the fifth,
The paleness.of the succinct flower was stopped.
The afternoon, already dying, flowed out
onto your temple as the softest violet.
And on the smoothest quiet of the lake
the swans preluded your agony.