erotic poem

to clothe the fiery thought
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
she might have known it in the earlier spring
tell me
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
let us pity those who are better off than we are
why are the things that have no death
when, full of warm and eager love
there were three in the meadow by the brook
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
be not false
night is dark, and the winter winds