NE ME TANGITO"This man . . . would have known who and what manner of woman this is: for
she is a sinner."—S. Luke vii. 39.
ODD, You should fear the touch, The first that I was ever ready to let go, I, that have not cared much For any toy I could not break and throw To the four winds when I had done with it. You need not fear the touch, Blindest of all the things that I have cared for very much In the whole gay, unbearable, amazing show.
True—for a moment—no, dull heart, you were too small, Thinking to hide the ugly doubt behind that hurried puzzled little smile: Only the shade, was it, you saw? but still the shade of something vile: Oddest of all! So I will tell you this. Last night, in sleep, Walking through April fields I heard the far-off bleat of sheep And from the trees about the farm, not very high, A flight of pigeons fluttered up into an early evening mackerel sky. Someone stood by and it was you: About us both a great wind blew. My breast was bared But sheltered by my hair I found you, suddenly, lying there, Tugging with tiny fingers at my heart, no more afraid: The weakest thing, the most divine That ever yet was mine, Something that I had strangely made, So then it seemed— The child for which I had not looked or ever cared, Of whom, before, I had never dreamed.
