If poetry comes not so naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. - Keats
* * *
When in my arms your slender form
I take, perhaps a shade too boldly,
And words of love, impetuous, warm,
Pour out to you, in silence, coldly
From my unasked-for, rash embrace
You free yourself, and for an instant
A smile appears upon your face,
At once mistrustful, wan and distant.
Too promptly has your memory stored
Of all my errant ways the rumour -
I speak, and you are out of humour,
I plead my cause, and you are bored...
O how I curse the sweet diversions
And pleasures of my wicked youth,
Love's nightly meetings and excursions
To some dark garden nook or path,
The verses born to stimulate
And stir the blood, the fond caresses
Bestowed too soon by trusting lasses,
And their laments that came too late.