I’m not your skiff, not stately, not your steady oar.
I’m not your bark, your tiller, nor your floating.
Your solitude—it is not mine.
I’m not your water-cleaving-breasted swan,
not stars to steer your thoughts.
I’m not your solitude.
I never was the walk, the daffodils, the lake—
not violets on untrodden ways,
not mystery, not turtle tears,
I’m not your heart—leapt-up or rippled-moonlit.
I’ll not be rowed.

The cliff frights you. It sings for me.
It sings itself as void-against-the-night
or whispers to the stars and their reflections
on a star-strewn lake.

I’m not the willowed bower into and out from which
you stole a plain-built boat, then rowed
your terrified return.
I’m not your ship.
The sky is not more yours for your love.
The water and the willow do not care.
Yet you cannot too much be with me,
though, late and soon, I never need your voice.