Stephen Spender

Never being, but always at the edge of being

My head, like Death-mask into the sun.

The shadow poiting finger across cheek,

I move lips for tasting,I  move hans for touching,

But never am nearer than touching
Thoug the spirit lean outward for seeing.
Observing rose , gold, eyes, an admired landscape,
My senses record the act of wishing,
Whishing to be
Rose, gold, lands cape or anothes.
I claim fulfilment in the fact of loving

New collected poems

                                         Stephen Spender