We sained forever with our wild embraces,
No man shall know; though indeed master poets
Reckon one such for every eve of the year,
To sain their calendar.
But this much is true:
That children stumbling on our lairs by chance
In quest of hazelnuts or whortleberries
Will recognize the impress of twin bodies
On the blue-green turf, starred with diversity
Of alien flowers, and shout astonishment.
Yet should some amorous country pair, presuming
To bask in joy on any bed of ours,
Offend against the love by us exampled,
Long ivy roots will writhe up from beneath
And bitterly fetter ankle, wrist, and throat.
- Robert Graves