Interlude

Edith Sitwell

Amid this hot green glowing gloom

A word falls with a raindrop’s boom…

Like baskets of ripe fruit in air

The bird-songs seem, suspended where

Those goldfinches—the ripe warm lights

Peck slyly at them—take quick flights.

My feet are feathered like a bird

Among the shadows scarcely heard;

I bring you branches green with dew

And fruits that you may crown anew

Your whirring waspish-gilded hair

Amid this cornucopia—

Until your warm lips bear the stains

And bird-blood leap within your veins.