The woods are a bed of figs,
A green cradle—
For these creatures in a celestial sleep

They are two candles burning
Midsummer—in a shroud of heat—
Fires upon fire

White hands from the moon
Rest on her frail shoulders
She enchants with her silence

And he listens deeply
Drinking from her fluted limbs
Understanding her dreamy murmurs

Their whispers fall into the fingers of leaves—
Their whispers glitter,
where the trees drip their shadows

His heart—an ardent nest for her
He is her shaky lover
She sings to him: They hurt you, oh let me soothe you

The woods become a warm shell
as she unpetals her clothes
breathing her maddening laughter.

Only her hair weeps down her lucent body
and he is holding a princess—
Pale and slender; buried in her long hair

The woods look heavily upon them,
hiding the intoxicated lovers,
And having a fondness for their beauty

These two, these liquored children
Playing in the night’s hot shade
They have eyes for no one else.