The Garden

O, that the wish

of love could scatter

like seeds in the winds

and fall into the furrows

for us!

Sorrow and sadness

by leaf and flower,

moon stones;

let us keep the heart-clear air

blue and vague,

so that the eyes grow

bright with adventure;

it is but the pale lips

that profess

‘I love thee!’

O hand, where one can

trail the circle

of these light leaves.

With the breath elastic

that will be satisfied.

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