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Loving you less than life, a little less Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall Or bush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess I cannot swear I love you not at all. For there is that about you in this light— A yellow darkness, sinister of rain— Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight To dwell on you, and dwell on you again. And I am made aware of many a week I shall consume, remembering in what way Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek, And what divine absurdities you say: Till all the world, and I, and surely you, Will know I love you, whether or not I do. |