It's all very well for you suddenly to withdraw and say, I'll come again, but what of the bruises you've left, what of the green and the blue, the yellow, purple and violet?— don't you be telling us, I'm innocent of these, irresponsible of happenings— didn't we see you steal next to her, tenderly, with your silver mist about you to hide your blandishment?— now, what of what followed, eh?— we saw you hover close, caress her, open her pore-cups, make a cross of her, quickly penetrate her— she opening to you, engulfing you, every limb of her, bud of her, pore of her?— don't call these things, kisses— mouth-kisses, hand-kisses, elbow, knee and toe, and let it go at that— disappear and promise what you'll never perform: we've known you to slink away until drought-time, drooping-time, withering-time: we've caught you crawling off into winter-time, try to cover what you've done with a long white scarf— your own frozen tears (likely phrase!) and lilt your, I'll be back in spring! Next spring, and you know it, she won't be the same, though she may look the same to you from where you are, and invite you down again!