Of all of the kisses
she'd ever dared
slip him—this one
was
by some measure—the cruelest
as it seemed—
almost perversely
to do the most
good for
that sickness
which throttled him—that
there is
no knowledge,
only a little
glimmer;
a sympathy
for her intelligence—
as confusion and complexity
are each
dissolved slowly,
gradually,
and easily—
into the
very same simplicity
feebly
called—sky.
