The Pleasures Of Love

I do not care for kisses. "Tis a debt

We paid for the first privilege of love.

These are the rains of April which have wet

Our fallow hearts and forced their germs to move.

Now the green corn has sprouted. Each new day

Brings better pleasures, a more dear surprise,

The blade, the ear, the harvest--and our way

Leads through a region wealthy grown and wise.

We now compare our fortunes. Each his store

Displays to kindred eyes of garnered grain,

Two happy farmers, learned in love's lore,

Who weigh and touch and argue and complain--

Dear endless argument! Yet sometimes we

Even as we argue kiss. There! Let it be.