Sinners

The big mountains sit still in the afternoon light,
Shadows in their lap;
The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with delight.

We sitting here among the cranberries
So still in the gap
Of rock, distilling our memories,

Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders
Against me goes off with a laugh.
A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and wonders

What about sin? — For, it seems
The mountains have
No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of dreams

As they ought to have They rise above us
Dreaming
For ever. One even might think that they love us.

Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,
Two great dragon-flies wrestling;
You, with your forehead nestling
Against me, and bright peak shining to peak —

There's a love-song for you! — Ah, if only
There were no teeming
Swarms of mankind in the world, and we were less lonely!
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