What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him.
May he keep so.
Sylvia Plath
(Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices – 1962)
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