Out from the sodden, soft, and springtime mud After the warm and beating April rain, My hyacinth stood, sweet, white, without a stain, Clasped to its slim green stalk a tender bud. Child as I was, it hurt my heart; a flood Of love came for it. Dear, when I have lain With you, and out of agony and pain Have borne a child that is our flesh and blood, When you have seen him held against my side More pledge of love than poems that I wrote, Beneath that surging of triumphant pride That makes the heart to sing and head to float, I ask you.... darling ... dear ... will not a tide Of love come up and fumble in your throat? |