 | Love's memorial |  |
14
SPRING.
Between the trees and trickling waterfall;
Between the trees where throstles sit and call,
Responding to the streamlet's undertone,
As, rainbow-hued, from stone to mossy stone
It slides, with tinkling drops of silver sound;
Between the skies and still unfooted ground
Where poppies and the flashing marigold
Blaze gold and red, and drooping ferns enfold
Cool caverns that the sea-nymphs know when they
Rise from the breakers of the circling bay;
Spring, shyly laughing in delighted shame,
Before the noonday sun's exultant flame
Fain to devour her flesh with kisses, hides
The yielding beauty of her naked sides
And white breasts starred with rosebuds, shines and cowers,
Beneath massed boughs of scented apple-flowers.
Also, from one spread branch, with drooping head,
Clenched hands and swollen face, one hangs there dead.
Between the trees where throstles sit and call,
Responding to the streamlet's undertone,
As, rainbow-hued, from stone to mossy stone
It slides, with tinkling drops of silver sound;
Between the skies and still unfooted ground
Where poppies and the flashing marigold
Blaze gold and red, and drooping ferns enfold
Cool caverns that the sea-nymphs know when they
Rise from the breakers of the circling bay;
Spring, shyly laughing in delighted shame,
Before the noonday sun's exultant flame
Fain to devour her flesh with kisses, hides
The yielding beauty of her naked sides
And white breasts starred with rosebuds, shines and cowers,
Beneath massed boughs of scented apple-flowers.
15
Clenched hands and swollen face, one hangs there dead.
Foul type of man! Could'st thou not wait thy time?
Or did remorse for some dread secret crime
Rend up thy heart? Or anguish of desire
For an escaping dream? The burning fire
Of love, that turns our dayshine into night,
For woman made not for thy soul's delight?
Or did remorse for some dread secret crime
Rend up thy heart? Or anguish of desire
For an escaping dream? The burning fire
Of love, that turns our dayshine into night,
For woman made not for thy soul's delight?
What matters it? For thee all things are done:
Spring trembles here with love; the amorous sun
Has grasped her hair, and kissing blinds her eyes;
And from his glad embrace she will not rise
Until red evening float above the sea.
Spring trembles here with love; the amorous sun
Has grasped her hair, and kissing blinds her eyes;
And from his glad embrace she will not rise
Until red evening float above the sea.
Thou dost not know, fly-gatherer! And for me,
One wish is mine, as thus I pass thee by;
Would that I were as thou and thou as I!
One wish is mine, as thus I pass thee by;
Would that I were as thou and thou as I!
| Love's memorial | |