Is it possible to love a wren?
Must love own its object?Or seek to own it?
For the wren takes
‘What is hidden is more alluring’
To the n-th degree.
Glimpse here,
Blur there.
Then gone, but not forgotten.
Is it enough
For love to love her wild flight,
Wishing nothing but good
To one going, going, gone,
Asking not even acknowledgment
Of the looks of love
She is receiving?
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