Becky

By the willow and aspen groves,

their accustomed rendezvous,

he'd told her, as often as not,

to find a spot and hide from view:

"I didn't promise--don't say I did,

that the night wouldn't reveal us--

dirty sinners and all of that!--

to Mary, Joseph and Jesus.

Look! that ivy came from Boston,

that's twined--so cute!--around your wrist.

its yellowing lime and aspic leaves

being apt symbols of our tryst!

and more malleable English vines,

braided and falling down your hair--

why, they'll bring out the Eve in you

that tempted me to stare down there!

And panting for grasses, waist-deep,

so we could find a place to lie,

has left not a few milk-thistle stains

around the circle of your eye."

His Becky turned to look at him,

turned round to hear the man she loved,

as warm soft winds tossed and breezed.

And feeling she'd been cruelly snubbed,

she charged the night with all its stars,

to pluck the ivy from their place;

and bid the moon to wear its horns

and scrape the thistle from her face.

"I didn't promise--don't say I did!"

that grasses wouldn't conceal us."

And one more pagan, sprouting wings,

flies to Mary, Joseph and Jesus!