Little cramped words scrawling all over

   the paper

Like draggled fly's legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon 

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncertain window and the 

   bare floor

   

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing

   in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,

   virgin of loveliness

Beneath my hand.



I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart

   against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon.