If he had been contented with the apple
I hardened for him from the water-shadow;
or known the beasts by my names; or be able
to thread my glamour through the guarded meadow;
if, happy in the rib and single hair
I dressed for him in sweat and he thought woman,
he had not seen or heard the shining air
speak to him; or believed my mirror-demon,
I who am daughter of the glass of God;
or if he had lain still with witchcraft, ridden
the centaur-spider of his enchanted blood
- how could he lose, or want, or know, an Eden?

Angels unsheathed him; Eden drove me out,
binding itself my absence in his love.
Which are the real garden and the doubt?
How can he tell my image from my grave?
He will search after me in his own heart,
and find me, and not know if I am Eve.