Your fair face, I state, is tenderer than tender,3
Your tender hand, I state, is whiter than white;,
You are far removed from the world shipshape
And all that is yours stems from the inevitable—
From the inevitable comes your sorrow temerarious
And the warmth of your fingers, with well-groomed nails
And the quiet sound of words from your chiseled mouth
That know no despondency, and the distant gaze of your eyes.