Unfolding in all of the furrows
that lined and burst open my mind,
all kinds of beautiful fl owers
at summer’s most gentle wind.
For two who love one another
can torture each other far worse
than all enemies put together
can wreak vengeance over the earth
And two who love one another
can heal wounds beyond all repair
just if they look at each other
and smooth down each other’s hair.
A tower stands by the edge of a wood, an old weathered tower with moss and creepers growing across the peepholes, with green moss in the cracks and corners, and withered woodbine hanging like stiff, dry hair down over the red stone. High up on the east side is the only window in the crumbling walls.
Up there behind the deep-set window a woman stands gazing out at the coming night. She is small and thin, and her hands resting on the window-sill are as white as moonlight, and her chin as pale