We two
Storm-sheathed buds
Slept
Upon the wild plum bough.
Oh, once in April late,
When the slow bee pushed
Through the sweet, thick air,
And the oval slug
Lurked at the roots of grass--
Oh, once in April, late,
We sprang--white--
Into bloom and light:
You loved the yellow of my throat,
And I went mad with the honey of your lips!
Now
Keen days
Have flung our slightness
To the ground;
No brown bee swings by,
And bare the bough
Where our swift life
Once clung.
