How is it that I am now so softly awakened,
My leaves shaken down with your sound?–
Darling, I feel the wind of Springtime.
It is not your mouth, for I have known mouths before,–
Though your mouth is more open than roses,
Roses singing softly
To green leaves after rain.
It is not your eyes, for I have dived often in eyes,–
Though your eyes, even in the silver moonlight,
Are windows into eternal dusk.
Nor is it the quick-white flashing of your pretty feet,
Nor your soft hands, catching at glowing fireflies;
Nor the sudden tender music of your laughter,
When, against the dark backdrop,
With all its terrors shadowed, you shine.
I touch you, and we drift off together like moons.
Earth dips from under.
We are alone in an immensity of moonlight,
Specks in an infinite silver radiance,
Whirled and tossed in our hearts as silent torrents.
Give me your hands, darling. Let me hold you.