Liaison

A big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,     Star-spiders spinning their thread     Hang high suspended, withouten respite     Watching us overhead.     Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths     Curtain us in so dark     That here we're safe from even the ermin-moth's     Flitting remark.     Here in this swarthy, secret tent,     Where black boughs flap the ground,     You shall draw the thorn from my discontent,     Surgeon me sound.     This rare, rich night! For in here     Under the yew-tree tent     The darkness is loveliest where I could sear     You like frankincense into scent.     Here not even the stars can spy us,     Not even the white moths write     With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us     And set us affright.     Kiss but then the dust from off my lips,     But draw the turgid pain     From my breast to your bosom, eclipse     My soul again.     Waste me not, I beg you, waste     Not the inner night:     Taste, oh taste and let me taste     The core of delight.