Honey and poppies!
Until sleep is heavy upon me as a garment,
Until the winged joys come.
But even then, O my beloved! is desire and a grieving;
Even in the deep waters my soul remembereth
How it hath been troubled by thy hands.
CROCUS SONG
For M. C.
The first flame, the first spear of the spring,
A thing perfected of the dews and fire,
Saffron in hoar-frost, brightened as with wine:
Thou blossoming in the heart of me!
Ah, golden
Is she whose love hath led me through the world
A thing of dews and fire, of wine and saffron!
Gray willows veiling my beloved
Bend above her,
As though you would love her,
Now clear water shadoweth her whiteness.
Ere brown bees go abroad murmuring,
One saffron crocus hath made glad desire,
To follow on swift feet slim feet of thine;
Love wakening for joy of thee,
Beholden
As golden petals of one flower unfurled,
Brimmed up with dews and fire, with wine and saffron.
Clear waters shadowing her whiteness
Flow beside her,
As tho’ you would hide her,
Jealous that mine eyes have my beloved.