Apollo, on Daphne
When I whirled on to let go And clearly and richly resign Her fingers quickly of catkins As if I could damn and down My beggary to her dole, A bird of instinct, quickened, Nested his nerve near me; I heard of him the grief That told all winter teaching When he discoursed so sweetly Where his poll-willow thickened. His throat was eloquent; The terms he used were sad. He sang of south and far, While his reaching and regret Made on my mind all snow Deepen more northern yet: How her palatial wilderness In ignorance informed me, Her breast it seemed of acorns Most casually cast down Upon me, from time's mountains Failed not to need me; And I could ride night's back To some alerted stream where She made the cold enamoured With her scant promises! So said a season, then. I say: Spring is not what it says. I was, I think, her mirror And she was as beautiful As I could make her be. Could ever there have been And can there ever be A single time when she, Her glass not being me, Saw her own budding time? But now the leaves come down. She did not think to fall! Where did I think to climb?
