To. . .

    You have been my love for so many years，

    It makes me dizzy to think of so much hope，

    And my dizziness won't be aged²， or cooled；

    Even by what waited for our death，

    Or slowly learned how to fight us，

    Even by what is foreign to us，

    Or by my eclipses and my returns.

    A boxwood shutter³

    Encloses our outrageous⁴ luck，

    Our chain of mountains，

    Our compressed splendor⁵.

    I say luck， my wounded one，

    Each of us can receive

    The mystery of the other

    Without divulging⁶ it；

    Moreover our grief， which comes from elsewhere，

    That grief， which destroys and renews us，

    Will dissolve itself

    In the flesh of our union，

    Will finally find its orbit

    In our cloudy center.

    I say luck； it's how I feel.

    You have lifted the mountain top

    Which my hope will have to climb

    When tomorrow disappears.