What is this love to you? – no more
than a web woven of parting and absence,
a cradle the frost spins for evanescence
and fixes at three trembling points or four
between reed and reed at the lake's brink
on a winter's morning? Or do you see
us two linked only by fragile tracery
of long-wintered beeches? Or think
we run ripples on the lake?
as frail as these have a place in nature,
vanishing always between past and future,
and in love too is a place for yearnings
and the torture of wind in the web and high
mockery of leafless twigs.
But where am I?
O come and find me where the rock gives birth
in the deep luxurious hollows of the earth
and find me in the boles of mighty trees.
Find me and love me in the mosses of my ease
where lusty roots and limbs timelessly writhe,
where our long summer's buried but alive.