The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.
And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.
Suffices. In this moment rare and tenseI worship at your breast. The flower is blown,The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth,The yellow heart is radiant now with dewSoft-scented, redolent of my loved South;O flower of love! I give myself to you.Uncovered on your couch of figured green,Here let us linger indivisible.The portals of your sanctuary…
The butterflies, and sparrows in brief flightChirping and dancing for the season’s birth,The dandelions and rare daffodilsThat touch the deep-stirred heart with hands of gold,The thrushes sending forth their joyous trills,–Not these, not these did I at first behold!But seated on the benches daubed with green,The castaways of life, a few asleep,Some withered women desolate…
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinchI bear it nobly as I live my part.My being would be a skeleton, a shell,If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell,Did not forever feed me vital blood.I see the mighty city through a mist–The strident trains that…
Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest,The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delightLike the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat.I’m afraid of your eyes, they’re so bold,Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold.But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew…
Bowing my head in deep humilityBefore the silent thunder of thy power.Sometimes I flee before thy blazing light,As from the specter of pursuing death;Intimidated lest thy mighty breath,Windways, will sweep me into utter night.For oh, I fear they will be swallowed up–The loves which are to me of vital worth,My passion and my pleasure in…
To the faint touch of tender finger tips:What is your word? What question would you broach?Your lustrous-warm eyes are too sadly kindTo mask the meaning of your dreamy tale,Your guarded life too exquisitely frailAgainst the daggers of my warring mind.There is no part of the unyielding earth,Even bare rocks where the eagles build their nest,Will…
