The door ajar, I stood at point of day,
Tiptoe for you and with awakened eyes.
The sun’s gold slipper trod the gravelled way,
The grasses spilled their dews in glad surprise—
And then you came out of a mist of flowers
That clung and swayed like knots of butterflies!
When afterwards we two, in softened hours,
Walked through the fields of rye all red for reaping,
I felt as if my heart obeyed new powers:
The old in me seemed either dead or sleeping,
And as I glimpsed the poppies’ fluttering fire,
An eager pleasure set my pulses leaping.
And you, these sang, could give me my desire.
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