too many the joy

too many the joy

in the round house of apron hands the smaller

wood still cedar smoke,

and on her nestled breasting neck

perfumed, the muffled giggle spoke

he, toward the rising sun from bed

away did frost the pathing walk

to water green the splashing foam

white over lichen tumbled rock

anew, afresh, and whetting burst a pit-pat

dust the mudded stones, and briskly eyed

the darting limb

a quiet petal tufting grown

the love in silent fire sat,

comes gifting shadowed secret send

and sun the rising shadows cool

a grassy nap breathes sighing friend,

too many the joy of new to end