My Human Disguise.
Can the mind exhaust old beauty, even
One persisting as a form of perfection
Behind bullet-proof glass; we see, then,
With repetition, deem it a confection?
Yes, La Gioconda, if we let it
Become blind to us, a rotting cliche,
Or object of ridicule, an idee
Fixe, until we would as soon forget it.
No, lack of imagination can’t close
Her limpid eyes or silence what she knows,
What her kissing lips, brushing our own,
Might whisper in an evanescent tone —
Let me live in you, as you live in me.
I am so you can be because you see . . . .
