Love grows as love goes
like polliwogs to frogs,
whose wiggliness no longer shows
in leaping out from logs.
Love's occult when love's adult,
and somber in her days,
and makes no effort to rebut
her oriental ways.
Love's at rest when love is best,
when passion's bit is done,
then love settles on her nest,
and contemplates the sun.
Love's a gaudy lily in the first days of May,
a wildflower memory on a cold December day.
Oh I love this one so much! You tell it just the way it is. (I do wish I was a gaudy lily.)
So beautiful the alliteration, assonance of ''l'' in the first stanza, Barry.
Written many years ago. Though not I have run out of the older poems and so whatever comes next is new. I still have a small but growing backlog. I have always liked this poem too.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What is a polliwog Barry?
A tadpole, the first stage of becoming a frog. They are quite wiggly.