My love goes lurking, like a sparrow (on tiny, nervous springs), who takes each seed, each bead of water as fête, well set for kings. My love goes stealing, like a squirrel who fidgets and then sings of grains he hoards as they grow fatter till cat’s distemper stings. My love goes burrowing, like worm, who “Dirt for dowry!” sings; and yet I know the squalid mounds to which his harem clings. My love goes languishing, like laurel with roots asleep in slings: from here till May, a sullen ember, whose mood now weaves on wings.