The Harvester

I have seen beauty,
And I have been tempted to consume it,
As a schoolboy picks a flower
In the full blossoming of spring.

And, to tell the truth,
I have picked a flower or twenty-seven,
As they have grown in the warm strength of summer,
Without fear of plucking.

But, young man, the plucked flower does not grow,
Nor does it bear fruit in autumn,
Before the cold of winter sets,
And naught is left but death and cold.

Flower bloom in my eyes,
Fruit grow in your  womb,
As I wait expectantly.