What is this tint that in the shrill cress
Will never cease to trouble us and in the fields
Gives prick and praise for Beauty?
And said birds that feed on berries
Are pervious—and shook the snow from his thighs.
I thought of nothing carefully, but of snow, and the birds.
Then kissed the cup and sipped a little
Though almost choked drank slowly
Tickled with strange measure
She faked a pretty anger
I entertained the night with fantastic, empty pleasure
We went as far as the ivie-bush
And ivie-crowns upon our heads
And carried her kiss untouched and entire
Then all was fresh, inclined
To wriggle and nussle and lascivious
Ardent leaps. In the thickest of the wood
Bid him kiss close and often
And directed him to her fancie
The ground had a sweeter scent, the boughs a blush
One fruit, rare and rich, would outdo many together
She was wild to climb the tree
Nor would she be forbidden
She seized the apple and put it in her bosom.