Little cramped words scrawling all over the
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the bare
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of
Beneath my hand.
I am tired,
Beloved, of chafing my heart
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the
Of the great moon.
