P. T. R.

IT is a waste of time to talk to my cousin about his plums,

Though I know—

standing on the path with the sun in my hair

I make a sufficiently pleasing picture.

The plums are soft with bloom, and luscious purple—

If I took a step forward and held out my green smock,

Looked up and laughed at him,

He would throw them, showering rain-drops, into my lap,

And, quickly descending,

Slide his arm round my waist and—probably—kiss me.

Shall I go, I wonder?—

No, I will have none of these things.