Here's first a gloveless hand warm from my pocket, br A perch and resting place 'twixt wood and wood, br Bright-black-eyed silvery creature, brushed with brown, br The wings not folded in repose, but spread. br (Who would you be, I wonder, by those marks br If I had moths to friend as I have flowers?) br And now pray tell what lured you with false hope br To make the venture of eternity br And seek the love of kind in wintertime? br But stay and hear me out. I surely think br You make a labor of flight for one so airy, br Spending yourself too much in self-support. br Nor will you find love either, nor love you. br And what I pity in you is something human, br The old incurable untimeliness, br Only better of all ills that are. br But go. You are right. My pity cannot help. br Go till you wet your pinions and are quenched. br You must be made more simply wise than I br To know the hand I stretch impulsively br Across the gulf of well-nigh everything br May reach to you, but cannot touch your fate. br I cannot touch your life, much less can save, br Who am tasked to save my own a little while.