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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.