Sweating a little, like a dewy apple,
As round and rosy, always a shade disheveled,
Of whom one thinks, “There goes somebody pleasant,
Not beautiful, of course, but with an air
Like a small tune half-forgotten.”
                                                   A little
Lovelier than beauty, your face revealed
Or hid the sun for me — though now no face 
Does that — only the opening or closing 
Of my own eyes — still if I were to see you
Passing alone the street, I would come stand
Before you, arms hung limply at my sides
To say, “I love you, but it doesn’t matter.”

— Vassar Miller