I do not care for kisses. "Tis a
We paid for the first privilege of love.
These are the rains of April which have
Our fallow hearts and forced their germs to move.
Now the green corn has sprouted.
Each new
Brings better pleasures, a more dear surprise,
The blade, the ear, the harvest--and our
Leads through a region wealthy grown and wise.
We now compare our fortunes.
Each his
Displays to kindred eyes of garnered grain,
Two happy farmers, learned in love's lore,
Who weigh and touch and argue and complain--Dear endless argument!
Yet sometimes
Even as we argue kiss.
There!
Let it be.
