4121602Copper Sun — Timid LoverCountee Cullen

Timid Lover

I who employ a poet’s tongue,Would tell you howYou are a golden damson hungUpon a silver bough.
I who adore exotic thingsWould shape a soundTo be your name, a word that singsUntil the head goes round.
I who am proud with other folkWould grow completeIn pride on bitter words you spoke,And kiss your petalled feet.
But never past the frail intentMy will may flow,Though gentle looks of yours are bentUpon me where I go.
So must I, starved for love’s delight,Affect the mute,When love’s divinest acolyteExtends me holy fruit.