If I Could know or see a life completely
Through a man’s word, written; not unduly;
If, they have been blurred, and are not truly
Yet for me, intended.  Nor discreetly,

Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight, pathos, nor
A fresh idea, nor hatred even.  More
Of which I name, created more Completely?

Even understand it partly?  I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller when I read
His Tropic wrought; or Baudelaire to plumb
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall words of men know heeding;
Merely learn what we, must needs, become?