 | Wild honey from various thyme |  |
172
HER HAIR
Nay, but a wind, a god from secret cave—Nay, 'tis of him I speak;
For he hath touched thy cheek,
And with his hands
Smoothing hath brushed aside thy wayward hair;
Even as the tide
Leaves in soft mound the silver-golden sands.
Fair god, didst thou not find her temples fair?
Yea, 'tis to thee I speak!
Art thou not he
From the Æoliæ,
Fresh from the stars, the rain?
Did'st thou not find her brows most free from stain?
And shall I find
The fragrance of a kiss on her lulled eyes, O wind!
| Wild honey from various thyme | |