The Pure Region

The fineness of your face about the eyes.
Your outward self, exultant over each
high cheekbone.
A pure region deeper lies,
an Irish dreaming-softness out of reach . . .

there is a sadness that I never reach.
A trace, sometimes, of the far soft skies
of your own life, and thought.
It neighbours each
long eyelash fringe. It shelters round your eyes.

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