  Would God I were the tender apple-blossom That floats and falls from off the twisted bough, To lie and faint within your silken bosom, As that does now. Or would I were a little burnished apple, For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold, While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple, And your hair's spun gold. Yea, would to God I were among the roses That lean to kiss you as you float between, While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses To touch you, queen. Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing, A happy daisy, in the garden path, That so your silver foot might press me going, Even unto death. Katharine Tynan-Hinkson. |
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