The Letter

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves ? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight ? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns. And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you ; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon.