On the Hill-Side

A Memory

You lay so still in the sunshine, 
So still in that hot sweet hour— 
That the timid things of the forest land 
Came close; a butterfly lit on your hand, 
Mistaking it for a flower.

You scarcely breathed in your slumber, 
So dreamless it was, so deep— 
While the warm air stirred in my veins like wine, 
The air that had blown through a jasmine vine, 
But you slept—and I let you sleep.