WITHOUT CONVENTION

My blood is hot with newborn Spring
My heart abeat, I want to sing;
I want to sing a little song
Of things i cannot label wrong.

I want to sing of love, of fire,
and you the focus of desire;
of chasing you accross a field
And holding you to feel you yield.

I want to sing about your lips,
to run my hand about your hips,
To stroke your cheek and smell your hair
and tell you how I know you fair.

I want to sing about your eyes,
To hear your little plaintive cries
and feel you in my arms alive
As we in correlation strive.

My heart abeat with newborn Spring,
I want to love, I want to sing;
I want to sing a little song
Of things I cannot label wrong.

JMT 1947