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The Maids Thought

by
 Why listen, even the water is sobbing for something.
The west wind is dead, the waves Forget to hate the cliff, in the upland canyons Whole hillsides burst aglow With golden broom.
Dear how it rained last month, And every pool was rimmed With sulphury pollen dust of the wakening pines.
Now tall and slender suddenly The stalks of purple iris blaze by the brooks, The pencilled ones on the hill; This deerweed shivers with gold, the white globe-tulips Blow out their silky bubbles, But in the next glen bronze-bells nod, the does Scalded by some hot longing Can hardly set their pointed hoofs to expect Love but they crush a flower; Shells pair on the rock, birds mate, the moths fly double.
O it Is time for us now Mouth kindling mouth to entangle our maiden bodies To make that burning flower.

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