The hills of little Cornwall Themselves are dreams. The mind lies down among them, Even by day, and snores, Snug in the perilous knowledge That nothing more inward pleasing, More like itself, Sleeps anywhere beyond them Even by night In the great land it cares two pins about, Possibly; not more. The mind, eager for caresses, Lies down at its own risk in Cornwall; Whose hills, Whose cunning streams, Whose mazes where a thought, Doubling upon itself, Considers the way, lazily, well lost, Indulge it to the nick of death-- Not quite, for where it curls it still can feel, Like feathers, Like affectionate mouse whiskers, The flattery, the trap.
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.