In Love

No firefly more forlorn, more gravely strays Among the glories of the morning tree Than I, who glide almost invisibly Where apple boughs are white as brides' bouquets. Beneath the arches of the orchard ways, Only one tulip, that I start to see, As though my own heart had dropped out of me, Seems to have guessed that I, too, am ablaze.

My blood is full of gleamings like seafoam, My body brims with something of the moon And shakes, as if with wings that would unfold. So, after dark, I bar the doors of home, Lest those, who think that I am grey at noon, Should stare at night to see that I am gold.