The white birches fringe the breast of the lake,
Their dark leaves quiver, expectant.
There is a far cry, passionate, insistent.
All is still, and only the moon looks on in negligence …
There is a near cry, then an answer —
And so a nest is built in the birches.
There is a small cry, and soft wings press closely, warmly.
Against the silver lake of your breast
Is the night of your hair,
And two pointed, darkly gleaming stars rivet my eyes;
Eyes too are stars — I cannot tell
Which draws me most —
The birch-satin of your limbs invites unmitigable desire:
Your mouth a round red moon, ripe with passion.
I see birch-satin limbs bend near the lake
Where gleams two-pointed, succulent night —
Like jagged rose quartz in a moonbeam’s way,
It slices my desire, O woman!
There is a sound upon the lake.
It disturbs me.
I know not what it is.
(Isobel Stone)
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Based on Topics: Night Poems, Cry Poems, Woman Poems, Hair Poems, Desire Poems, Silver Poems, Passion PoemsBased on Keywords: slices, succulent, two-pointed