Did I not linger there?
Wondering at the soft eggshell light of predawn
(So different from the rough hue of noon
That coarsens, creases, and bronzes,
Savagely illumining man’s labor)
Watching it wispily light upon the curve of your shoulder,
The uncontending line of your cheek,
Your reposing eyelids,
Wondering because I could not tell
Whether the morning gave her light to you
Or your unhurried spirit
Gave hers
To the morn.