You will not always be far away and pure
As a word conceived in a poet's silver womb
You will not always be a metaphysical signature
To all the poems I write. In my bleak room
This very year by gods will you may be
A woman innocent in her first sin
Having cast off the immortality
Of the never to be born. The violin
Is not more real than the music played upon it.
They told me this - the priests - but I am tired
Of loving through the medium of a sonnet
I want by Man, not God, to be inspired
This year O creature of the dream-vague face
You'll come and be a thing in time and space
§ Written on the page is: 'In the same mood Dub Mag'
In line 10, 'that' is pencilled above 'this'.
In the final line, 'to me' is faintly pencilled after 'You'll come…'.
