| AMID this hot green glowing gloom | |
| A word falls with a raindrop's boom... | |
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| Like baskets of ripe fruit in air | |
| The bird-songs seem, suspended where | |
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| Those goldfinches—the ripe warm lights | 5 |
| Peck slyly at them—take quick flights. | |
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| My feet are feathered like a bird | |
| Among the shadows scarcely heard; | |
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| I bring you branches green with dew | |
| And fruits that you may crown anew | 10 |
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| Your whirring waspish-gilded hair | |
| Amid this cornucopia— | |
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| Until your warm lips bear the stains | |
| And bird-blood leap within your veins. | |