By Luis G. Dato
Being a perfect mystery,
How strange that I your gifts should claim,
You are, my friend, unknown to me
Even to the very name.
Yet in the city such things pass -
Pure gems are oft in gutters laid,
Bright roses rise above the grass,
Or even Schubert’s serenade!
And though no words ‘twixt us be spoken,
A spell there is, a charm, a clearness,
The ice our hands have touched and broken,
What could be dearer than your nearness!
