XXVIII
With your head thrown backward
In my arm’s safe hollow,
And your face all rosy
With the mounting fervour;
While the grave eyes greaten 5
With the wise new wonder,
Swimming in a love-mist
Like the haze of Autumn;
From that throat, the throbbing
Nightingale’s for pleading, 10
Wayward, soft, and welling
Inarticulate love-notes,
Come the words that bubble
Up through broken laughter,
Sweeter than spring-water, 15
“Gods, I am so happy!”
XXIX
Ah, what am I but a torrent,
Headstrong, impetuous, broken,
Like the spent clamour of waters
In the blue canyon?
Ah, what art thou but a fern-frond, 5
Wet with blown spray from the river,
Diffident, lovely, sequestered,
Frail on the rock-ledge?
Yet, are we not for one brief day,
While the sun sleeps on the mountain, 10
Wild-hearted lover and loved one,
Safe in Pan’s keeping?