Transparent pool,
And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,
Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sip
Its honey from a stillness. Watch the dip
And glimmer of the cork, and how they slip—
The scarlet fish—below the water, like
The thoughts that strike
Athwart the mind. How else could lovers wish
Than thus to fish?
Though I have cut no strand of yellow hair