I find my soul is sensitive, like yours,
Indeed, although there is one-no more think I
One generation between yours and mine,
Our thoughts fly crisply through the air
And meet, purified, as one.
And our first union
Is the making of this stamp.
The one redeeming grace on any paper-tax
Shall be your face. And mine
The soul behind it all, worshipful
Of nature for her gift of youth
And beauty to our earth.