THE FUGITIVE
55
waves at the high tide, and my heart is drowned under surging songs.
My heart knew of your coming, as the night feels the approach of dawn. The clouds are aflame and my sky fills with a great revealing flood.
6
I was to go away; still she did not speak. But I felt, from a slight quiver, her yearning arms would say: "Ah no, not yet."
I have often heard her pleading hands vocal in a touch, though they knew not what they said.
I have known those arms to stammer when, had they not, they would have become youth's garland round my neck.
Their little gestures return to remembrance in the covert of still hours, like truants they playfully reveal things she had kept secret from me.
