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 perilousperilous
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.
