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.