Xxviii

With your head thrown backward In my arm’s safe hollow, And your face all rosy With the mounting fervour;

While the grave eyes greaten With the wise new wonder, Swimming in a love-mist Like the haze of Autumn;

From that throat, the throbbing Nightingale’s for pleading, Wayward, soft, and welling Inarticulate love-notes,

Come the words that bubble Up through broken laughter, Sweeter than spring-water, “Gods, I am so happy!”