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.
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.
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