Classic Poem

For the wood-cutter's daughter was bathing in the stream:
A young girl, dark, with hair like the raven's,
And a slipping white body fresh from the waters and flashing
As the sun ran down the wet:
Over her head she held a towel with two arms out,
And ecstatic with the cold creek, and with glowing drunken youth,
She stood tiptoe, as if wings on her feet would toss her over the pine-tree tops …

And lacking wings to lift her, she sang:
Sang spontaneous snatches of a ringing wood-music:
A hymn to Earth and life.

Gone were Golden City and Mother for the lad:
He panted suddenly with the pines and the passionate Earth:
He was a boy of the sun, armed with the lance of fruitful fire:
He grew dizzy, and blushed, a flame of desire:
A flame to wrap the girl in.