THE THIRTEENTH DAY 
 
“ If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damned.” 
Cymbeline. 
 
In the dim porchway where the sea’s deep boom 
Under our very feet made ceaseless song, 
We sate, remote, the lone lanai along, 
Sequestered from the young moon in the gloom 
Of early even :  then the tender bloom 
Shone on her cheek and deepened as the strong 
Arms gathered round her, more than shame or wrong, 
And the soft question murmured “ Love you—whom ?” 
 
The deepening rose ; the heart’s pulse quickening ; 
The fear ; the increasing ecstasy of this— 
A little cloud lifted a sombre wing 
Shadowing our secret breath from Artemis— 
Breasts met and arms enclosed, and all the spring 
Grew into summer with the first long kiss. 
 
 
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