Page:Love Poems and Others.djvu/17

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CRUELTY AND LOVE

What large, dark hands are those at the windowLifted, grasping the golden lightWhich weaves its way through the creeper leaves     To my heart’s delight?
Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,In the west I see a redness comeOver the evening’s burning breast—     —’Tis the wound of love goes home!
 The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover:  The sun-lit flirt who all the day  Has poised above her lips in play  And stolen kisses, shallow and gay  Of pollen, now has gone away  —She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, And when above her his broad wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover.
 Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below, Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where hangs the swallow’s marriage bed.  The bird lies warm against the wall.  She glances quick her startled eyes  Towards him, then she turns away  Her small head, making warm display  Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway

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