Classic Poem

We are alone; wind in the trees
Makes a mighty, climbing sound,
Like the last breaths of heroes.
The moon sends erratic proclamations
Through the barrier of leaves.
The earth on which we sit,
Strikes us, like a heavy, stifled cry.
Shall we take the cramped and begging dramas
Tombed within our flesh, and hear the wind
Only as a nervous ascension of lust,
And see in moonlight the swooning slavery
Of emotions consumed
By the brightness of pain?
Shall we confess that thought and spirit
Are only worried lies
Postponing the emergence of flesh?
Let us take instead
The grazing reveries and railleries
Of touch jeered at by earthly men
Whose buttocks slumber on the hill-slopes.
Let us meet as lightly as the air
Which signals to this leaf above our heads.
Earth can sometimes be
Delicately averse
To the frenzied rituals of men—
The honored elephants of sexual passion!