Mayday: two came to field in such wise : <br />`A daisied mead', each said to each, <br />So were they one; so sought they couch, <br />Across barbed stile, through flocked brown cows. <br /> <br />`No pitchforked farmer, please,' she said; <br />`May cockcrow guard us safe,' said he; <br />By blackthorn thicket, flower spray <br />They pitched their coats, come to green bed. <br /> <br />Below: a fen where water stood; <br />Aslant: their hill of stinging nettle; <br />Then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle; <br />Above: leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud. <br /> <br />All afternoon these lovers lay <br />Until the sun turned pale from warm, <br />Until sweet wind changed tune, blew harm : <br />Cruel nettles stung her angles raw. <br /> <br />Rueful, most vexed, that tender skin <br />Should accept so fell a wound, <br />He stamped and cracked stalks to the ground <br />Which had caused his dear girl pain. <br /> <br />Now he goes from his rightful road <br />And, under honor, will depart; <br />While she stands burning, venom-girt, <br />In wait for sharper smart to fade.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bucolics/
