She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.
So real. So Vital …So sad that even a witch can not be loved. Why is it so hard to feel. So diffucult to be with someone different. These are mysteries not to be solved in this lifetime….maybe the next
It is a sad poem but one about how nothing is ever what we want or think we want. Her Witch-wife is partial figment, not completely in the same realm. Not something that can be held on to or even completely understood. Too many constraints are imposed from the outside for something of another realm to ever be able to adapt completely. It is a poem of longing and ultimate loss.
So real. So Vital …So sad that even a witch can not be loved. Why is it so hard to feel. So diffucult to be with someone different. These are mysteries not to be solved in this lifetime….maybe the next