Irony

 Always, sweetheart,
Carry into your room the blossoming boughs of cherry,
Almond and apple and pear diffuse with light, that very
Soon strews itself on the floor; and keep the radiance of spring
Fresh quivering; keep the sunny-swift March-days waiting
In a little throng at your door, and admit the one who is plaiting
Her hair for womanhood, and play awhile with her, then bid her depart.


A come and go of March-day loves 
Through the flower-vine, trailing screen;
A fluttering in of doves.

Then a launch abroad of shrinking doves
Over the waste where no hope is seen
Of open hands: 
Dance in and out 
Small-bosomed girls of the spring of love,
With a bubble of laughter, and shrilly shout 
Of mirth; then the dripping of tears on your glove.

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