Orrick Johns

WHEN I love thee, O Beloved, it is with joy,

And laughter and song and sun;

And when I leave thee, O Beloved,

Thou art not away …

For I am gathering cherries in the tree-tops of thy meditation.

Thou art always with me, O Beloved, in terror and peace,

For thou sweepest through me like a great wind;

And thou leavest no dust behind nor anything foreign,

But pathways, pathways!—

That thy thoughts have followed.

I care not whether it be up or down, the way I go with thee,

For always it has a flower in the grass,

And a tree overhead;

And the stream of thy laughter flows ever along …

Oh, the slope of thy bosom is covered with clover in the morning!

Give me thy great flowers, O Beloved,

That open boldly to the moon!

And the strong sweep of the flood

Thou hidest in the ravines of thy sleep!

Thou art a daughter of the lightning,

And a sister of the rose;

Thy kisses are as keen as the grass at midnight,

And thy tenderness a bowl of new milk.