Two paths exist, but neither ends.
Yet, in your thoughts, one may well lead
On further, as if you misstepped,
If caught within a rondel's cleft,
Alone again, that stone to read:
The Baroness below subtends
Our Brite Sophie. Now caress
These fingers years long past, long gone:
Why does this pain not evanesce?
Like that first time you won't go on,
Expectant on this elm-bound square,
So moist and dark, where no one treads.
What counter-urge has made you dare,
To search among the sunny beds,
As if they named a rosebush bloom?
What sounds recur as you stand here?
Why do you see, flickering near,
The moths now lost where tall phlox loom?