Love poems (and what have I of yours 
But one you did not send for jealousy,
And all my own?) 
Do not define their motion, cures 
For the emblazoned heart, the callow palsy 
Of limbs: the bone 
Alone that will not die, too deep 
Beneath the flesh for any but one certain 
Touch to reach,
Itself is quiet in them. Sleep 
Alone knows tactics otherwise forgotten.