Song
(on a turn of phrase from “In Ampezzo” by Trumbull Stickney)
When we had just begun
I’d many a love, but none
so far outshone the rest;
and when we had progressed
from crocus to heartsease
no other face could please.
The loveliest I had known
possessed but a fault, but one:
that she was she, not you.
Had you her beauty, too,
I couldn’t have loved you better
for such a minor matter.
I sang but a song, but one,
under the summer sun
while south winds warmed the shore;
for I loved but a love, no more,
and the viol played on alone
when the last white bird had flown.
American Arts Quarterly, Spring 2015, Volume 33, Number 2