Scarcely giving the passerby room.
We know that the blossomy mass
Will brush our heads as we pass,
And under our feet there's blue clover
And the blue stars of
malva
all
over.
We approach, but before we get there,
If
no breeze stirs that green lair,
The scent and sun-honey of air
Is too sweet comfortably to bear.
I carry you up the
hill.
In my arms you are sweet and still.
We approach your special place,
And I am watching your face
To see the sweet puzzlement grow,
And then recognition glow.
Recognition explodes in delight.
You leap like spray, or like light.
Despite my arm's tightness,
You leap in gold-glitter and brightness.
You leap like a fish-flash
in
bright air,
And laugh with joy for the bloom there.
Yes, this is the spot, and hour,
For you to demand your flower.
When we first came this way
Up from the beach, that day
That seems now so long ago,
We moved bemused and slow
In the season's pulse and flow.
Bemused with sea, and slow
With June heat and perfume,
We paused here, and plucked you a bloom.
So here you always demand
Your flower to hold in your hand,
And the flower must be white,
For you have your own ways to compell
Observance of this ritual.
