your hands that I could see

drift over the orchid heads

so carefully,

your hands, so fragile, sure to lift

so gently, the fragile flower stuff—

ah, ah, how was it

You never sent (in a dream)

the very form, the very scent,

not heavy, not sensuous,

but perilous—perilous—

of orchids, piled in a great sheath,

and folded underneath on a bright scroll

some word:

Flower sent to flower;

for white hands, the lesser white,

less lovely of flower leaf,

or

Lover to lover, no kiss,

no touch, but forever and ever this.

[31]

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