I feel the brush of his hair,

and my hands keep the gold they took

as they wandered over and over

that great arm-full of yellow flowers.

[35]

[35]

SONG

You are as gold

as the half-ripe grain

that merges to gold again,

as white as the white rain

that beats through

the half-opened flowers

of the great flower tufts

thick on the black limbs

of an Illyrian apple bough.

Can honey distill such fragrance

as your bright hair—

for your face is as fair as rain,

yet as rain that lies clear

 Prev. P 52/71 next