On The Canyon-Side

Forgotten lies the world we knew, One mile behind the looming hill; And here, beside a laurel-darkened rill, Slow-wandering, we have found A fern-lost boulder large enough for two That sit with arms enwound. Upon your pale, delicious throat Like a torn lace the shadows stir; While, with a sharpened longing, I defer The kiss that fain would fall; And softly touch your yielded wrist, and note How loud your pulses call. Syringa-blossoms, frail and old, Swept by the swiftly dying air, Fall like a fragrant snow, and in your hair Two poising petals rest; And a great moth with wings of mottled gold Pauses before your breast. Now, while the world is far and dim, Now, while the afternoon is new, Reveal, I pray, the rapture that is you: Hoard not the least caress, Nor the last whiteness of the breast and limb, From love made fetterless.