They flush with their love and fill their breasts with it
And say short words, not knowing what they say,
Their meetings have contents and covers,
Jewels and lids. . . .

They can count their love.

How different, O beloved stranger,
Have our meetings been,
When I may not say my love! —
Meetings of mountain and desert,
Open to the wind,
With snow far-off, like a cry,
And on edges of cactus
Red drops
Of the blood of silence.