I am wicked—wicked—wicked— In the spring! When the scent of wild plum Turns blood to tainted wine, I do not care whose fevered lips In ecstasy touch mine; Nor whose cool hands linger Against my pulsing throat, If only I may hear the while The throbbing, joyous note Of oriole and thrush. Upon the breast of pagan May My soul I fling. When in flight the goldfinch Tilts tulips with his wing, I do not care how wild, how weird The godless song I sing; Nor whose warm lips whisper Sweet follies in my ear, If only in craved soul-release Enraptured songs I hear Of birds at twilight hush. I am wicked—wicked—wicked— In the spring! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FONTAINEBLEAU (AUTUMN) by SARA TEASDALE WHO KNOWS WHERE BEAUTY LIES? by AGNES STEWART BECK THE LAST MAN: SPEAKER'S MEANING DIMLY DESCRIBED by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES SONNET by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS A BRIDGE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE COUNTRY CHURCH by ELIZABETH BOGART MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE PLASTER ON THE CHIMNEY by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |