Little cramped words scrawling all over br the paper br Like draggled fly's legs, br What can you tell of the flaring moon br Through the oak leaves? br Or of my uncertain window and the br bare floor br br Spattered with moonlight? br Your silly quirks and twists have nothing br in them br Of blossoming hawthorns, br And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, br virgin of loveliness br Beneath my hand. br br I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart br against br The want of you; br Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, br And posting it. br And I scald alone, here, under the fire br Of the great moon.