Alone… ‘T will be the way (to paradise?
To innocence? To being saint? To virtue?)
From our queer world of closed ears and eyes,
And counting - do confess it! - your own creatures…
You seem to live, you seem to feel and love.
You’re similar to all the rumours-guesses…
But here, from up the skies, a snow-white dove
Comes down into your hand in silent blessing.