To A. G.-M.
You sprinkled, like an herbal charm of love,
Strong words on me, to whet my appetite
For ardor—since I’d given men the shove.
You’d been appalled, and said it wasn’t right
That I, more wayward than Titania, bent
Contented on my winding path alone.
You saw your project: I would warm, repent,
Concede that joining’s joy should be my own—
Then render up my rarified reserve
To something tender, pulsing, rich, and wise.
You caught my reason sleeping, for—the nerve!—
You splashed your magic drops on dreaming eyes!
But was it chance?—You stayed till I awoke;
I looked up then—and loved you in a stroke!