as one defrauded of delight,

sick, shaken by each heart-beat

or paralyzed, stretched at length,

who gasps:

these ripe pears

[15]

are bitter to the taste,

this spiced wine, poison, corrupt.

I cannot walk—

who would walk?

Life is a scavenger's pit—I escape—

I only, rejecting it,

lying here on this couch.

Your garden sloped to the beach,

myrtle overran the paths,

honey and amber flecked each leaf,

the citron-lily head—

one among many—

weighed there, over-sweet.

The myrrh-hyacinth

 Prev. P 22/64 next