Its shadow lay on my heart ; 

 I thought I saw on the clover 

 A brown bee pulling apart 

 The closed flesh of the clover 

 And burrowing in its heart. 



She moved her hand, and again 



I felt the brown bird hover 



Over my heart . . . and then 



The bird came down on my heart. 



As on a nest the rover 



Cuckoo comes, and shoves over 



The brim each careful part 



Of love, takes possession and settles her down, 



With her wings and her feathers does drown 



The nest in a heat of love. 



She turned her flushed face to me for the glint 

 Of a moment. ' See,' she laughed, ' if you also 

 Can make them yawn.' I put my hand to the dint 

 In the flower's throat, and the flower gaped wide with 



woe. 

 She watched, she went of a sudden intensely still. 

 She watched my hand, and I let her watch her fill. 



I pressed the wretched, throttled flower between 



My fingers, till its head lay back, its fangs 



Poised at her : like a weapon my hand stood white and 



keen, 

 And I held the choked flower-serpent in its pangs 

 Of mordant anguish till she ceased to laugh. 

 Until her pride's flag, smitten, cleaved down to the 



staff. 

 E 33 



