stop making sense

Daisy Miller is the one I pine for.
She puts me out, and lets me in, dog in the manger that I am.
She gleams with incommensurate allure, strolling through the hotel garden at Vevey,
the busy streets of Rome.
I take her picture, but it doesn't last:
the want to capture proves mockery in its covetous task.
Daisy Miller, with her white muslin dress,
the height of high end American fashion.
It is Daisy, flower of flowers, spring of springs, and her alone, that I pine for.
She moves, and I move, and I am hers:
a twinkle in her eager eye, a vessel in her sea and sky.
She is beauty, fair and square. And lust, douced lust,
ferociously erupting everywhere.

She is not uncultivated, though I've called her that.
She is neither innocent, though I've also called her that.
The truth is that my Daisy Miller evades the bodice of description,
the corset of tight explanation.
I have no vocabulary, no lexicon for her;
no way to reconcile the mystery, when she asks,
"what's in a name?"

And though I've found myself in others, and hurried to the task--
never else in Zurich, in Geneva, or even all our rapturous world--
have I come across the singular haunting of a certain Daisy Miller,
and had to do the impossible: that is, say goodbye, to her, to all, to this;
and so to that I raise my glass.