VII

Easily you move; and easily as a tree
To the first small wind of March
Lets loose its blossoms, you sing, you sing.
Your golden rain of hair

Drifts between bare towers; and stone
Grows human where your cool hands
Nestle like birds. O love, nowhere
Have skies been frailer

Than the breathing moon of your great
Splendour; frailer than are the white breasts
Of first love, or the dove-borne limbs
Of her who rose glittering

Out of the white-fiery spray like a rainbow.
Lie still, lie still; for when you stir
Upon me, the air about you aches
As if with pearl-white birds

Come home from summer seas. Your heart
Is a pearl in my hand that weeps
When I touch you; and when I turn away
Shadows your brow like mist

On mirrors. But when we kiss, sunlight
Comes easily, breeding from foreheads
Forgetful waters, lighting cold
Hands that winter

Humbled on stone. Then somewhere
Along your limbs a well opens,
O drawing me down to waters where
My hands lie drowned.