So: you have pinched the last bud from this twig
That is my life among so many lives;
Only, this hung so low your fingers twitched
To pluck the promise from it, bud by bud.
You see, my world, you are a woman, come
To stand beneath the tree of all your trysts.
You fret now this too intimate stem and that,
Cruel and careless, with an idle mind
Deliberating kisses old and new.
My world, you do not much disturb the tree—
We are too many branches. Neither can
Your pestilent fingers ever baffle spring.