What loin-cloth, what rag of wrong
What turn of body, what of lust
So we’ve worshipped you a little
More than Christ.
This poem is in the public domain.
Here where the trees tremble with your flight
I sit and braid thin whips to beat you down.
How shall we ever find you who have gone
In little dresses, lisping through the town?
A frog leaps out across the lawn,
And crouches there—all heavy and alone,
And like a blossom, pale and over-blown,
Once more the moon turns dim against the dawn.
Someday beneath some hard
Spreading its light a little
We'll know you for the woman
That you are.