I do not seek remembrance in your mind
that labyrinth of immovable images
through which your restless sparroweyes will flash,
seeking the remnants of a singing dawn.
When I am gone and the starburned nightingale
of your dark blood investigates the years
let it find no trace of me in that soft night
but as a tear that falls into surprise
from some unguessed delight of yesterday.
For such of me as persists within your flesh
should be unknown, or it bring you to regret.
Then hold me blindly in your Autumn hand
and tell your children some careless phrase of mine
but forget the origin of the words your speak,
that only my love may claim immortality
as innocent wisdom, a heart within your heart.