I walk, slowly, without aim or trepidation, and across the forecast of my steps she measures cautious glances, Day again and I see her, neighbor but for silence wherein each broken smile caresses the eternity standing twixt our paths. Living but a few paces apart for longer than measure can foretell, each watching the other in private wonder chancing not the air to suffer our shy intercourse. What is your name shy sister, whose eyes plunge into my heart at every whisper of their touch, and toss there every tenant of reason? In the darkest rain, or the coldest dew, your sight fills the heavens with etherial radiance, warming my dampen collar, lifting light from the corners of the world. And yet, I run from your acquaintance and stall the promise of your touch, as though these held for me a most horrible consumption, or happiness, which I mindless must flee. Strange this is, to find I love you; and yet admit I do not know your name.