Sweet Poesy to give me pause of pain,
Oft in her singing mood
Sought to surprise her haunt, and sought in vain.
And thou art shy as she,
But mortal, or I had not found thy shrine,
To listen breathlessly
If I may make thy hoarded secret mine.
Thy tender mottled breast,
Dappled the color of our primal sod,
Now quick and song-possessed,