May is much sunshine through small leaves.
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Even pain pricks to livelier living.
I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.