Tropical Girl to Her Garden

Withhold your breath ! Heavy in noon, and sleepy as slow death, Garden of sweets and sours, The cluster of my body hangs Odorous with flowers : Stamen serpent-fangs, Sultry, in showers.

Withhold your hand ! My boughs are bent with gold, my face is fanned With wings of bees that, thirsting, curve and kiss ; Under green leaves, green tendrils coil and hiss ; Sun spills on me, gloom bears me down too much ; My heavy fruit will fall without a touch From hanging long in sultriness like this.