Hippocrene

With you,
I sup on singing birds

And drink hot sunlight cooled with clouds.

With you,
I ride the slanting winds,
Toss coloured balls back and forth over the moon,
Swing up through trees,

And slide down swiftly upon beds of irises.

When you are here,
we stack words at the end of a rainbow

And bowl at them with swans' eggs.

We run races through grass

to old bronze temples,
And sitting under marble porches,
Count daisy petals
to the tapping of a bell.

We leap from steeples,

And land in flowered palaces.

In cedar-scented parlours you tell me tales,
Long, slow tales,

strummed lightly on a lute;
And I lie on blue cushions and watch the sea and hear your voice.

With you,

I do all these things --
How therefore should I care

to gabble with the donkey-men,
To gossip with the old women

who sell turkeys,
To watch my next-door neighbour plait her hair

and lament the untoward price of butter.

Until you come I will sit here
alone, by a quiet window,
And, with a fine brush,
trace little pictures

To show when you return.