The wooden châlets of the cloud
Hang down their dull blunt ropes to shroud
Red crystal bells upon each bough
(Fruit-buds that whimper). No winds slough
Our faces, furred with cold like red
Furred buds of satyr springs, long dead!
The cold wind creaking in my blood
Seems part of it, as grain of wood;
Among the coarse goat-locks of snow
Mamzelle still drags me, to and fro;
Her feet make marks like centaur hoofs
In hairy snow; her cold reproofs
Die, and her strange eyes look oblique
As the slant crystal buds that creak.
If she could think me distant, she
In the snow's goat-locks certainly
Would try to milk those teats, the buds,
Of their warm sticky milk—the cuds
Of strange long-past fruit-hairy springs—
The beginnings of first earthy things.