by H. D.

I should have thought

in a dream you would have brought

some lovely， perilous¹ thing，

orchids² piled in a great sheath，

as who would say （in a dream），

"I send you this，

who left the blue veins³

of your throat unkissed."

Why was it that your hands

（that never took mine），

your hands that I could see

drift over the orchid-heads

so carefully，

your hands， so fragile， sure to lift

so gently， the fragile flower-stuff——

ah， ah， how was it

You never sent （in a dream）

the very form， the very scent⁴，

not heavy， not sensuous⁵，

but perilous——perilous——

of orchids， piled in a great sheath，

and folded underneath⁶ on a bright scroll⁷，

some word：

"Flower sent to flower；

for white hands， the lesser⁸ white，

less lovely of flower-leaf，"

or

"Lover to lover， no kiss，

no touch， but forever and ever this."