We had single a few days.

We had single a few days, but they were remarkably long,

the light changed constantly.

A small in number days, spread out over several years,

over the course of a decade.

And each meeting charged with a brains of exactness,

as yet we had traveled, separately,

some great distance; as granting there had been,

through all the years of wandering,

a destination, after all.

Not a place, unless a body, a voice.

A not many days. Intensity

that was not at all permitted to develop

into tolerance or sluggish affection.

And I believed for many years this was a great marvel;

in my mind, I replyed to those days repeatedly,

convinced they were the center of my amorous life.

The days were real long, like the days now.

And the intervals, the separations, exalted,

suffused with a kind of passionate cause of gladness that seemed, somehow,

to lengthen out those days, to be inseparable from them.

So that a not many hours could take up a lifetime.

A scarcely any hours, a world that neither unrolled nor diminished,

that could at any point, be take downed again

So that long after the cessation I could return to it without difficulty,

I could live almost completely in imagination.

...

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