Slivers of rain upon the pane,
Jade-green with sunlight, melt and flow
Upward again:—they leave no stain
Of all the storm an hour ago.
2
Over the hill a last cloud dips
And disappears, and I should go
As silently but that your lips
Are warmed with a redder glow.
3
Fresh and fragile, your arms now
Are circles of cool roses,—so...
In opal pools beneath your brow
I dream we quarreled long, long ago.
Source: The Complete Poems of Hart Crane
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