1

I should like to creep
Through the long brown grasses
 That are your lashes;
I should like to poise
 On the very brink
Of the leaf-brown pools
 That are your shadowed eyes;
I should like to cleave
 Without sound,
Their glimmering waters,
 Their unrippled waters,
I should like to sink down
 And down
And down . . . . .
And deeply drown.

2

Would I be more than a bubble breaking?
 Or an ever-widening circle
 Ceasing at the marge?
Would my white bones
 Be the only white bones
Wavering back and forth, back and forth
 In their depths?