Why listen, even the water is sobbing for something.
The west wind is dead, the
Forget to hate the cliff, in the upland
Whole hillsides burst
With golden broom.
Dear how it rained last month,
And every pool was
With sulphury pollen dust of the wakening pines.
Now tall and slender
The stalks of purple iris blaze by the brooks,
The pencilled ones on the hill;
This deerweed shivers with gold, the white
Blow out their silky bubbles,
But in the next glen bronze-bells nod, the
Scalded by some hot
Can hardly set their pointed hoofs to
Love but they crush a flower;
Shells pair on the rock, birds mate, the moths fly double.
O it Is time for us
Mouth kindling mouth to entangle our maiden
To make that burning flower.
