In What Sense I Am I

In what sense I am I a minor observer as in a dream absorbed in the interior, a beardless youth unaccountably remote yet present at the action reminding me faintly of Prufrock. . . . a diminutive figure barely discernible seemingly ageless escapes me. The original impulse to sing compressed into one exultant note breaks out of the chest-space, vibrating along the shoulders in the presence of full-bodied womanliness, the eyes dark in the inner scene, the hair long and black, our dark lady, inmate of courtship. She does not speak. She is nameless. The reason for her presence there is unknown. A shepherd, vaguely associated, stands at a distance under a birch tree, causally, playing a flute. Sweetness streams across. . . . also from the balance and the position of each, it issues. Neither moves. The scene is not matter that can pall or diminish. Its secret holds as fast as I. As in Giorgione the suspense is eternal.