Spring Pastoral

Liza, go steep your long white handsIn the cool waters of that springWhich bubbles up through shiny sandsThe color of a wild-dove's wing.

Dabble your hands, and steep them wellUntil those nails are pearly whiteNow rosier than a laurel bell;Then come to me at candle-light.

Lay your cold hands across my brows,And I shall sleep, and I shall dreamOf silver-pointed willow boughsDipping their fingers in a stream.