If I could, I would gather for you — if I could —

the whole world in a single armful,

and crumble it, song upon song,

at your feet, my dark one.

I would wake the lilies to shepherds' tunes

to dance at your feast,

set the hills astir, sit April down,

and let him doze upon your arms.

I would set the myrtle branching, drug the breeze,

and send strolling over your body

weddings, and trilling nights, and a star,

and make them drunk on your name.

And I would call to a morning star, beckoning

from the window of paradise,

to hang for you a swing of light —

fly on it and sing!

And the moon — that one behind Sannine,

so puffed up with himself —

I would point him toward you and ask him: guess,

is it you who rises in his mind?

I would have the canary that neighbors my window

spin you a ribbon —

what colors of thread... what weaving! —

streaked from the dawn.

I would heap you up baskets of roses,

some full-blown and some in bud,

and from summer's trousseau a skirt,

and a sash, of blossom.