Love, unnerved so,
And turned in like a fiddlehead whose crozier, curved so,
Introverts it,
Your shyness draws the notice that so disconcerts it:
Am I staring?
But turns this shy are due remarking this unsparing
For their rareness;
Nor will the fiddlehead’s volutes, for all May’s fairness,
Outlast Maytime;
So if your lover tries, what costs you so, to stay time
By his prying,
Love, unless he’d lose the sight of beauty, shying,
Pry he’s bound to;
For who can see the fiddlehead, itself turned round to
Form its crozier,
Without at once intruding on its self-enclosure?
And turned in like a fiddlehead whose crozier, curved so,
Introverts it,
Your shyness draws the notice that so disconcerts it:
Am I staring?
But turns this shy are due remarking this unsparing
For their rareness;
Nor will the fiddlehead’s volutes, for all May’s fairness,
Outlast Maytime;
So if your lover tries, what costs you so, to stay time
By his prying,
Love, unless he’d lose the sight of beauty, shying,
Pry he’s bound to;
For who can see the fiddlehead, itself turned round to
Form its crozier,
Without at once intruding on its self-enclosure?
