Thomas Stearns Eliot
To Whom I owe the leaping delight,
That quickens my senses in our wakingtime,
And the rhythm that governs the response of our sleepingtime,
The breathing in unison.
Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other,
Who think the same thoughts without need of speech,
And babble the speech without need of meaning.
No peevish winter wind shall chill,
No sullen tropic sun shall wither,
The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only.
But this dedication is for others to read:
These are private words addressed to you in public.