THE EARTH-CHILD IN THE GRASS
Inthe very early morningLong before Dawn timeI lay down in the paddockAnd listened to the cold song of the grass.Between my fingers the green blades,And the green blades pressed against my body.“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?”Sang the grass.“Why does she weep on my bosom,Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?Foolish little earth child!It is not yet time.One day I shall open my bosomAnd you shall slip in—but not weeping.Then in the early morningLong before Dawn timeYour lover will lie in the paddock.Between his fingers the green bladesAnd the green blades pressed against his body ...My song shall not sound cold to himIn my deep wave he will find the wave of your hairIn my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.Long and long he will lie there ...Laughing—not weeping.”1911.
Inthe very early morningLong before Dawn timeI lay down in the paddockAnd listened to the cold song of the grass.Between my fingers the green blades,And the green blades pressed against my body.“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?”Sang the grass.“Why does she weep on my bosom,Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?Foolish little earth child!It is not yet time.One day I shall open my bosomAnd you shall slip in—but not weeping.Then in the early morningLong before Dawn timeYour lover will lie in the paddock.Between his fingers the green bladesAnd the green blades pressed against his body ...My song shall not sound cold to himIn my deep wave he will find the wave of your hairIn my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.Long and long he will lie there ...Laughing—not weeping.”1911.
Inthe very early morningLong before Dawn timeI lay down in the paddockAnd listened to the cold song of the grass.Between my fingers the green blades,And the green blades pressed against my body.“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?”Sang the grass.“Why does she weep on my bosom,Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?Foolish little earth child!It is not yet time.One day I shall open my bosomAnd you shall slip in—but not weeping.Then in the early morningLong before Dawn timeYour lover will lie in the paddock.Between his fingers the green bladesAnd the green blades pressed against his body ...My song shall not sound cold to himIn my deep wave he will find the wave of your hairIn my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.Long and long he will lie there ...Laughing—not weeping.”
1911.