You drop your head. You sleep. Your hands are curled
Loosely, like some half-opened, perfumed flower.
An hour ago they burned in mine and sent
Armies with banners charging through my veins.
Now they are cool and white; they rest content,
Curved in a smile. The mystery remains.
A SIDE STREET
On the warm Sunday afternoons
And every evening in the Spring and Summer
When the night hurries the late home-comer