Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
running over a hare
on the way home
tell me I will be her
tomorrow
and the heart cannot help
a thin ink
no design in the griefs
which make us all
a hare on the white hill
and me at the office
which is which
I may alter my opinion
who is really mad
the office squeezing
but me out of order
Would I could cast a sail on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king's daughter,
And alight at the comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn that the best thing is
To change my loves while dancing
And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
I would find by the edge of that water
The collar-bone of a hare
Worn thin by the lapping of water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.
One had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.
See ! He trails his toes
Through the long streaks of moonlight.
And the nails of his fingers glitter :
They claw and flash among the tree-tops.
His lips suck at my open window.
And his breath creeps about my body
And lies in pools under my knees.
I can see his mouth sway and wobble.
Sticking itself against the window-jambs.
But the moonlight is bright on the floor,
Without a shadow.
Hark ! A hare is strangling in the forest.
And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.