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…'.