Poetry Archives

Big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,
  Star-spiders spinning their thread
Hang high suspended, withouten respite
  Watching us overhead.

Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths
  Curtain us in so dark
That here we’re safe from even the ermin-moth’s
  Flitting remark.

Here in this swarthy, secret tent,
  Where black boughs flap the ground,
You shall draw the thorn from my discontent,
  Surgeon me sound.

This rare, rich night! For in here
  Under the yew-tree tent
The darkness is loveliest where I could sear
  You like frankincense into scent.

Here not even the stars can spy us,
  Not even the white moths write
With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us
  And set us affright.

Kiss but then the dust from off my lips,
  But draw the turgid pain
From my breast to your bosom, eclipse
  My soul again.

Waste me not, I beg you, waste
  Not the inner night:
Taste, oh taste and let me taste
  The core of delight.