Without is tender yearning, And tender love is within; ONCE on my mother's breast, a child, They can hear each other's heart I crept, beats, Brown hands splashed with mulberry Content with vaguest feathers and Of the river where we used to swim, Under the ghostly sycamores, came Haunting the waters smooth and From his log the chipmonk, waxen And pillaged the berries overhead; dim; tame, Peered and listened to what we said. |