You’re happy when, for you,
we teeter on a knife-edge.
You’re a gleam that flickers in the eyes,
stretched ice that’s cracking underfoot;
and so, untouchable for him who loves you most.

If you meet souls beset by sadness
and you bring them light, your morning’s sweet.
It’s all astir, like nests on gable tops.
But nothing stills the weeping of the child
whose toy balloon has fled between the houses.