If one is what he thinks about all day
I am—when not age, death, acclaim or pay—

One or another aspect of your being
I daily see but do not tire of seeing:

A line of lip, a curve of plain
Of tender skin that sings its own refrain,

A slender-sinewed neck, a sweep of hair,
A punctuating mole—I won’t say where—

Yet greater than all of those traits combined
And still indwelling them, a grace of mind

That, having every needful thing, provides
From an abundance that no use divides,

Forgives and listens, strengthens and consoles
And slows my race between opposing poles

Of exaltation and despair. But why
I am allowed to draw from this supply

Remains beyond what I can know or say
Until I’m wise, or more hours fill the day.