102.

The Georgian calms the world about, hills slant

Asky, the round and crescent relieve

The eye, and love has known its time here

From Romans to the landed, the Avon

Downstream from a boy who could shape

A mean sonnet, the stench of gloves still

In his pores. These love poems wind like

This river, its dark glass now reflecting

Cloud and tree on the train window, and distance

Is left like a tempo, and similes

Squirm like adolescents in love, and seek

Your touch with you away. Tongues have souls

And this is beyond proof, love is a silence

Beyond strife, held, the elm on the hill your thumb.