I am wicked—wicked—wicked— In the spring! When the scent of wild plum Turns blood to tainted wine, I do not care whose fevered lips In ecstasy touch mine; Nor whose cool hands linger Against my pulsing throat, If only I may hear the while The throbbing, joyous note Of oriole and thrush. Upon the breast of pagan May My soul I fling. When in flight the goldfinch Tilts tulips with his wing, I do not care how wild, how weird The godless song I sing; Nor whose warm lips whisper Sweet follies in my ear, If only in craved soul-release Enraptured songs I hear Of birds at twilight hush. I am wicked—wicked—wicked— In the spring! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DREAM-LOVE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI FROLIC by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL THE GODS AND THE WINDS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON IN THE HOSPITAL by PATRICK JOHN MCALISTER ANDERSON THE PROEM. TO LOVE by PHILIP AYRES DEATH AND THE MONK by ARTHUR E. BAKER IN A LETTER TO A.R.C. ON HER WISHING TO BE CALLED ANNA by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS |