The apricot-tree
Shoulder-high or less –
Look! an apricot
at branch-tip ripeness.
Stretching, straining,
holding out a prize,
the tree is a maiden
offering closed eyes.
You stand and wonder:
will she bend and sway
her slender waist or
step back, run away.
With quick breath shudders
from heat or passion,
fans herself, signals
in the high fashion.
Shakes the shimmering
pomp out of her dress,
then blushing she waits
for your compliments.
This garden a ballroom,
she gazes about,
anxiously, constantly,
wants to be sought out.
I spend each evening
all evening with her.
Come again tomorrow
she says in whisper.
She rustles softly
when I salute her.
It seems my poetry
can still transmute her.
Sweet apricot-tree,
in a dream I saw
the cool arbour, and you
on the crackling straw.
First you glanced around
anxiously, then left
the dark hedge, the well,
in your moon-white shift.
Your stepping increased
the silence gently,
brought me your body
soft and sweet-scented.
Since that dream I glance
towards you, flushing.
Please look at me too,
askance and blushing.