| Would God I were the tender apple blossom that floats and falls from off the twisted bough to lie and faint within your silken bossom with your silken bossom, as that does now ! Oh would I were a little burnish'd apple for you to pluck me gliding by so cold while sun and shade your robe of lawn with dapple your robe with lawn and your hair's spun gold. Yeah, would to God I were among the roses that lean to kiss you as float between while on the lowest branch a bud uncloses, a bud uncloses to touch you Queen. Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing a happy daisy in the garden path. that so your silver foot might press me going, might press me going even unto death ! |
