I first tasted under Apollo’s
lips love and love sweetness, I Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets or hyacinth
which the wind combs back across some rock shelf;
I Evadne was mate of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth as
the flower of the crocus, across my cheek, cool
as the silver cress on Erotos bank; between
my chin and throat his mouth slipped over and
over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair, and my hands
keep the gold they took as they wandered over
and over that great arm-full of yellow flowers.