Held in the light a story is subdued.
Arranging words in chunks and men in clusters
Prevents the passions from enslaving reason.

Can truth within that well of light be hid?
Can they be real, the posed and spotlit actors
Tossing poised words, unflustered by emotion?

Real? When behind the scenes a girl is kneeling
Out of my private life; a girl in green
(The colour of lovers) dressed like a page, in prayer.

Blinded by light I cannot see her: feeling
The straining eyes to whom she is unseen.
How can I know that she is really there?