A big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight, <br /> Star-spiders spinning their thread <br />Hang high suspended, withouten respite <br /> Watching us overhead. <br /> <br />Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths <br /> Curtain us in so dark <br />That here we’re safe from even the ermin-moth’s <br /> Flitting remark. <br /> <br />Here in this swarthy, secret tent, <br /> Where black boughs flap the ground, <br />You shall draw the thorn from my discontent, <br /> Surgeon me sound. <br /> <br />This rare, rich night! For in here <br /> Under the yew-tree tent <br />The darkness is loveliest where I could sear <br /> You like frankincense into scent. <br /> <br />Here not even the stars can spy us, <br /> Not even the white moths write <br />With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us <br /> And set us affright. <br /> <br />Kiss but then the dust from off my lips, <br /> But draw the turgid pain <br />From my breast to your bosom, eclipse <br /> My soul again. <br /> <br />Waste me not, I beg you, waste <br /> Not the inner night: <br />Taste, oh taste and let me taste <br /> The core of delight.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/liaison-2/
