Why does he come so slowly?
There is no longer anything
To mar our meeting...

This must be real
For Harlequin is still clowning,
He waves his arms grotesquely
To make me smile....

Quick, into his arms
With unspent fervour.
Why are the trees all sighing?
Look, whispering birches, if you will,
I and my love embrace!

They do not look,
They do not seem to care...

Embrace me, my beloved!
(Can these by passionate kisses?
They feel so thin and cool
Like mist.)

The birches shiver
As though the night-wind stirred them.

Can we be dead?

Portrait of a Gentleman