Blackness and silence, that is where she rises,
Sylvia, you knew the moon too well.
Well of illusion, misguided dreams; old virgin appearing in white
she is barren, dry, bald-
Stolen light is borrowed beauty.
How can she be Lake of the gods,
She’s a mirror, she confounds, bewilders, dazzles and deceives.
What is a lover to her but a fool– You know what is said,
the lover, the lunatic share one bed–
A memory of sunlight, a fantasy in the way of her bright emptiness,
that is what love is to an old, envious maid.
I’ll not look on her again easily,
how can I and not recall
up over the white shoulder of a windy hill in icy air
She unveiled her face to me– I, whom she’d driven to despair,
cried a name she would never hear.