Expressions Near the End of Winter

If I but had my longing! not opals sad and rare,
For noble stones are proud things, and best befit your hair;
Not purple-buttoned waistcoats, nor sack to drink me deep,
But white, smooth sheets to lie in—oh I’d sleep, sleep, sleep!

And the corners of that bedstead should be olivewood so green,
And the gentle swan’s-down pillows should have comforted a queen;
With a canopy above me, of azure silk outspread,
Four carved evangels at my feet and magi at my head!

And no sun should creep there, and but small starlight,
And the whole room be odorous of gardens known at night;
The thick scents of evening, the attar of the rose,
Should take away my weariness both drowsily and close.

You would come on tiptoe, like the whisper of birds’ wings,
With a quite small music and some occupying things,
And draw up close a cushion, and bend a cautious ear,
And say “Now don’t disturb him—for he’s tired, poor dear!”

And then, both handfast, we would dream long days,
Till the dry world shimmered to a sleepy, happy haze.
With no cares to speak of—no silly fools to fret—
Oh my great, proud longing that I’ll never, never get!