A BIG bud of moon hangs out of the
twilight,
Star-spiders spinning their thread
Hang high suspended, withouten
respite
Watching us overhead.
Come then under the trees, where the
leaf-cloths
Curtain us in so dark
That here we’re safe from even the
ermin-moth’s
Flitting remark.
Here in this swarthy, secret
tent,
Where black boughs flap the ground,
You shall draw the thorn from
my discontent,
Surgeon me sound.
This rare, rich night! For in
here
Under the yew-tree tent
The darkness is loveliest where I could
sear
You
like frankincense into scent.
Here not even the stars can spy
us,
Not
even the white moths write
With their little pale signs on the wall, to try
us
And
set us affright.
Kiss but then the dust from off my
lips,
But draw the turgid pain
From my breast to your bosom,
eclipse
My soul again.
Waste me not, I beg you,
waste
Not the inner night:
Taste, oh taste and let me taste
The core of
delight.