Pursuing her was like wooing the moon:
No matter how close, still the same distance.
The place where she fled was an empty entrance.
My light became her, and she said, "Too soon."
Yet she hung on each soft word, every tune,
As if such praise made all the difference,
Though her eyes just pitied my persistence,
Resistant, as usual, to my charms immune.
Yet I think of that now as the lilac age,
When words couldn't worm their way in between,
When grievances desire would soon assuage,
And a bangle could shake the slate clean,
For feeling was all that was real at that stage,
The field at the end of the street always green.
