That now is empty. (O my empty life!)
That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pеа, —
And brought it in to show me! I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smelI
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And lushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.) And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.