I do not care for kisses. 'Tis a debt <br />We paid for the first privilege of love. <br />These are the rains of April which have wet <br />Our fallow hearts and forced their germs to move. <br />Now the green corn has sprouted. Each new day <br />Brings better pleasures, a more dear surprise, <br />The blade, the ear, the harvest--and our way <br />Leads through a region wealthy grown and wise. <br />We now compare our fortunes. Each his store <br />Displays to kindred eyes of garnered grain, <br />Two happy farmers, learned in love's lore, <br />Who weigh and touch and argue and complain-- <br />Dear endless argument! Yet sometimes we <br />Even as we argue kiss. There! Let it be.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pleasures-of-love/
