All the fine fire sun sends down.
The leaving green, the heaving sea, the air
Cool as a dream of snow in Africa,
The rare rich minerals of the earth, singing wind –
These fine things do not remind me of you,
No, you make them, in their tracks, their places and
Without you they are not, no, nothing is:
Only some wan and lightless vacuum
Where a faint sound rings sadly because a possibility
Of your being hovered, ah, but it never came to be.