I saw him, and so died: all purpose froze,
The heart held tight. But thought of fear can banish
Visions; and when I spoke the image rose,
Only to vanish.
Though lips were flesh, his words could scarce surpass
Perfection of a simple sort, and lonely,
Profound as a mirror: one sheet of silvered glass,
Don’t worry if he’s simply beautiful. It’s a stage trick.