text: What large, dark hands are those at the window
  Lifted, grasping the golden light
  Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves
         To my heart's delight?
  
  Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,
  In the west I see a redness come
  Over the evening's burning breast
          'Tis the wound of love goes home!
  
  The woodbine creeps abroad
  Calling low to her lover:
  The sun-lit flirt who all the day
  Has poised above her lips in play
  And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
  Of pollen, now has gone away
   She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
  And when above her his broad wings hover
  Then her bright breast she will uncover
  And yield her honey-drop to her lover.
  
  Into the yellow, evening glow
  Saunters a man from the farm below,
  Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed
  Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed.
  The bird lies warm against the wall.
  She glances quick her startled eyes
  Towards him, then she turns away
  Her small head, making warm display
  Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway
  Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,
  Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies
  In one blue stoop from out the sties
  Into the evening's empty hall.
  
  Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes
  Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,
  Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,
  Till the distance folds over his ominous tread.
  
  The rabbit presses back her ears,
  Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes
  And crouches low: then with wild spring
  Spurts from the terror of his oncoming
  To be choked back, the wire ring
  Her frantic effort throttling:
  Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!
  
  Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies,
  And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.
  Yet calm and kindly are his eyes
  And ready to open in brown surprise
  Should I not answer to his talk
  Or should he my tears surmise.
  
  I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair
  Watching the door open: he flashes bare
  His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes
  In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise
  He flings the rabbit soft on the table board
  And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword
  Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad
  Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud
  His coming: he raises up my face to him
  And caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grim
  Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare!
  I know not what fine wire is round my throat,
  I only know I let him finger there
  My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat
  Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood:
  And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down
  His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood
  Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood
  Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown
  Within him, die, and find death good.