Beneath the Willow's Shade You Rest

Beneath the willow's shade you rest
while boughs swing low to gently stroke
the pinkened hue pour'd 'cross your cheeks:
the skin whose warmth I'll never know.

While dandeli'n hairs of feather'd gray
spin 'round your closed lids, so slow
you raise your chest in breath
and pause in Heaven-like repose

while 'cross your arms goose pimples bud
in contrast to late spring's embrace;
while 'cross your flesh hairs stand on end:
the skin whose shape I'll never trace.

As rays of sun through branches fall
'gainst shadows in both ebb and flow,
I, too, wish I could fall upon
the skin whose warmth I'll never know.