Remains of the Day (I.P.)

Before leaving my room
i turn, and (stooping
through the morning) kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were. e.e. cummings

For a long time

I went to bed early –

after I’d walked

to the top of the ben

and sat where we two

bruised the nettles, hard by

an indent in the grass

where a deer had lain;

 its eyes with a glint

brighter than any star

whose one brief glance

could stop a heart

with its loveliness;

but, alas – alpine grass

even in its sweetness

and its silver, cannot

this retain, and

only its form

remains.