The Letter

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.