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
Vassar Miller, “Modesty”
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