The Arbor

He seems to he a god, that man

Facing you, who leans to be close,

Smiles, and, alert and glad, listens

To your mellow voice

And quickens in love at your laughter

That stings my breasts, jolts my heart

If I dare the shock of a glance.

I cannot speak,

My tongue sticks to my dry mouth,

Thin fire spreads beneath my skin,

My eyes cannot see and my aching ears

Roar in their labyrinths.

Chill sweat glides down my back,

I shake, I turn greener than grass.

I am neither living nor dead and cry

From the narrow between.