There’s a tree in the garden,
Under which we lay—
And you saw the Milky Way,
White and starry,
Like tides in the ocean—
And I reached out, wary
Could I touch it,
And not hurt the peace?
And my fingers
Glided across your eyes,
And then every white gold light
Faded,
Every pretty star
Exploded,
Into crumbling dust
I lay in ruins,
Of my own naive heart —
I could never preserve a good thing
Did I ever tell you that?
Poetry.inc 