Belated

At dusk a fox had run across my path,

And disappeared with smiling, wicked eyes.

It was so dark I could not see my way

Though all the fields were filled with fireflies.

And every tree had but one thing to breathe

Among its leaves-the words of an old song,

"At fifteen even a devil's a thistle-bloom."

The rice was murmurous as I went along;

Then in the darkness something brushed my sleeve,

White hands reached out to touch me in the gloom.

Her words were like the bright quick fireflies,

"At fifteen even a devil's a thistle-bloom."