Poetry Archives

Think not, because I wonder where you fled,
That I would lift a pin to see you there;
You may, for me, be prowling anywhere,
So long as you show not your little head:
No dark and evil story of the dead
Would leave you less pernicious or less fair—
Not even Lilith, with her famous hair;
And Lilith was the devil, I have read.
I cannot hate you, for I loved you then.
The woods were golden then.  There was a road
Through beeches; and I said their smooth feet showed
Like yours.  Truth must have heard me from afar,
For I shall never have to learn again
That yours are cloven as no beech’s are.