It strikes me now, as motionless we lie,

Stilling our thoughts to entertain but one,

How inattentive was this critic's eye

When first he chanced upon you in the sun.

Apollo made me squint instead of scan

And read between the flowing of your lines.

"This form's too precious. It's suited for a man

Who's versed in sharing bodies and not minds."

Then Dionysus held his court in turn.

I did not prophet from the former's reign.

Drunken, I let my rhymeless passion burn.

It beat with dulling ictus on my brain.

Now that I've curled up many a time with you,

Rereading makes your soft tone ring true.