Your voice， with clear location of June days，

    Called me outside the window.  You were there，

    Light yet composed， as in the just soft stare

    Of uncontested summer all things raise

    Plainly their seeming into seamless air.

    Then your love looked as simple and entire

    As that picked pear you tossed me， and your face

    As legible as pearskin's fleck¹ and trace，

    Which promise always wine， by mottled fire

    More fatal fleshed than ever human grace.

    And your gay gift-Oh when I saw it fall

    Into my hands， through all that na？ve light，

    It seemed as blessed with truth and new delight

    As must have been the first great gift of all.