You and I Have Never Touched
You and I have never touched
but our shadows have entangled;
the brush of shade against my shade
was like the touch of angels.
You and I have never kissed
but we kiss the same spring wind;
Zephyr on my mouth began
and on your lips now ends.
Grass Is Not Green
Grass is not green;
those poets lie who use that word to describe
the golden glow of sunlit blade
when filled with ardor of bright ray.
'Green' is mundane to the last;
can it catch a mead of sunlit grass?
But as the angels and our God
are named with foolish names,
every name thus falling short,
so splendid grass on sunlit day
we call 'green' -- a child's game,
a jest we jest in pleasant sport,
a pet name made in play.
The sun's shining high in the bright bluebird sky -
The grass springs up at my feet -
Your hair is spun gold like princesses' of old -
Your lips taste so honey-sweet -
Your eyes are startling blue -
And I'm already sorry for loving you.
With your words in my ears I brush back the tears -
Rejoicing resurges inside -
The force of the ache, more than I can take -
The heart bursts open with pride -
The world so painfully new -
That I'm already sorry for loving you.