You on the bed beside me hold
One arm straight up till it is cold,
Then let it fall, the softest part
Lying for warmth against my heart.
My fingers with your fingers’ ends
Play in and out; a foot defends
Deep regions from another foot.
You turn and find my eyes. I put
A curious palm where it is seized
By a quick hand—but you are pleased. . . .
There is a third one in the room.
See—in the sun, where the figures bloom
Blood-red on the rug—somebody kneels?
Time smiles at us, and rests his heels.
Outside a hundred horses graze.
He will drive on; but now he stays.
Soon I must follow hence, and slip
Into my place beneath the whip. . . .
He smiles upon us. Come, forget!
He has not thought of rising yet.
This poem is in the public domain.