In from the chintzy garden and the glare
he finds her in the cool cave of the room
straightening vases by the coloured hair,
patting the poll of a chrysanthemum
whose sentimental face nods back to her.

Collected.  But the great gong of the heat
to which wild-rooted people blaze like a curtain
is passion of liberty in male sun and root.
He nestles in the vase, and has forgotten
all but her firm caressing of his heart.

Unarm, Eros: fighting love is over,
in from the battle, drinking through a stem
female charity for a flower or lover.
No more struggle, as hands or scissors come,
against possession or the power of the giver.

Abandoned now to love, but no more summer's
- enslaved for all the rest - we turn to look
at those who fought in love with hate like swimmers
in lava towards love to a white rock:
to Hero's vase.

	Peace to the tents and rumours,
peace to the amorous air on sea and farm,
and lovers grown each other's superstition,
and all poor earth above the joy of the worm.
Only immortal longings are compassion:
a woman and a flower: Eros, unarm.