A lonely impulse of delight

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.

Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide.

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.