Carlyle F. McIntyre

From “Rodomontades”

HERE in the May we danced on violets

And blew off golden bubbles. Ah, my love,

How shall I name the sorrows and regrets

I pluck, and the black drink I press thereof?

Now you dream deeply, wise in death’s great lore;

I lean above you where the crickets sing,

And fumble the dumb latch of the green door—

You of the Maytime, lovely, wantoning.