And its seeds are bursting from it.

But how is this other than a torment to me!

I, who am shut up, with broken crockery,

In a dark closet!

Anticipation

I have been temperate always,

But I am like to be very drunk

With your coming.

There have been times

I feared to walk down the street

Lest I should reel with the wine of you,

And jerk against my neighbours

As they go by.

I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,

But my brain is noisy

With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

Vintage

I will mix me a drink of stars,--

Large stars with polychrome needles,

Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,

Cool, quiet, green stars.

I will tear them out of the sky,

And squeeze them over an old silver cup,

And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it,

So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.

It will lap and scratch

As I swallow it down;

And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire,

Coiling and twisting in my belly.

His snortings will rise to my head,

And I shall be hot, and laugh,

Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

The Tree of Scarlet Berries

The rain gullies the garden paths

And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.

A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.

Even so, I can see that it has red berries,

A scarlet fruit,

Filmed over with moisture.

It seems as though the rain,

Dripping from it,

Should be tinged with colour.

I desire the berries,

But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.

Probably, too, they are bitter.

Obligation

Hold your apron wide

That I may pour my gifts into it,

So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them

From falling to the ground.

I would pour them upon you

And cover you,

For greatly do I feel this need

Of giving you something,

Even these poor things.

Dearest of my Heart!

The Taxi

When I go away from you

The world beats dead

Like a slackened drum.

I call out for you against the jutted stars

And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast,

One after the other,

Wedge you away from me,

And the lamps of the city prick my eyes

So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you,

To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

The Giver of Stars

Hold your soul open for my welcoming.

Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me

With its clear and rippled coolness,

That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest,

Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me,

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