Poppies in January
Oh to be young and in love again
To feel the sting of Putte golden arrows on fair flesh
The blessed sight of virgin eyes – a wee child in a confiserie
What delightful deprivation
“Ich, ich, ich,” the heart does loll restless as Summer doves
Swift is its flight to Egypt ; to some makeshift haven
In seven years there will be an encore of the vocables
How mother mind does mock the child
To feel the sting of Putte golden arrows on fair flesh
The blessed sight of virgin eyes – a wee child in a confiserie
What delightful deprivation
“Ich, ich, ich,” the heart does loll restless as Summer doves
Swift is its flight to Egypt ; to some makeshift haven
In seven years there will be an encore of the vocables
How mother mind does mock the child