AFTER you speak
And what you meant
Is plain,
My eyes
Meet yours that mean--
With your cheeks and hair--
Something more wise,
More dark,
And far different.
Even so the lark
Loves dust
And nestles in it
The minute
Before he must
Soar in lone flight
So far,
Like a black star
He seems--
A mote
Of singing dust
Afloat
Above,
That dreams
And sheds no light.
I know your lust
Is love.