First Love

 At his incipient sun 
The ice of twenty winters broke, 
Crackling, in her eyes.
 

Her mirroring, still mind, 
That held the world (made double) calm, 
Went fluid, and it ran.
 

There was a stir of music, 
Mixed with flowers, in her blood; 
A swift impulsive balm 

From obscure roots; 
Gold bees of clinging light 
Swarmed in her brow.
 

Her throat is full of songs, 
She hums, she is sensible of wings 
Growing on her heart.
 

She is a tree in spring 
Trembling with the hope of leaves, 
Of which the leaves are tongues.

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