Summer School

It was a midsummer week’s illusion,
Making of us dryads in Titania’s wood.
“No guilty conscience” we agreed,
Breeding love by seeking to elude it;
We would not talk of it
Nor act it out.

Love was for those we left behind in Athens.
Falling in love for innocents, or
For majesty. Even under Aphrodite’s aegis
We recalled Aurora’s cool breath.

This accord was its own undoing:
Honour was a wick to passion’s flame.
Too late, we found compunction played
Robin Goodfellow with desire.