• To steal the spring, on a lark, on the wing -
    To lock her deep away from the world -
    Is this a love story for poets to sing,
    Of a bone-old man and a green-young girl?

    For how many days did she cry for her
    Mother, and how many days did she dream of
    Warm earth, and the sun high above her?
    You shut her in the dark and called it love.

    Your garden grows in bone dust and ashes,
    You planted her heart among hard brambles.
    Meat in winter is flavored by dashes
    of spice, for the fruit is a cold shambles

    Of once sunny days and once tender nights.
    Her heart gave you only the sour’st bites.