The Hill (Ann Arbor, Fall, 1966)

When you are safely locked up for the night
A tribe of young men runs along the lamp lit streets
To see your window pane and call to you
And say, "O, please, defenestrate some treats!"
After libations, we pray for rains of silk,
For tinted softness falling from a darkened sill.
There will be perfume in the air tonight
And the sound of eager voices crying,
"The Hill!! The Hill!! To the Hill!!
To the Hill!!"

Enchanted like mystics, we panted like dogs
But we turned around and left without the prize we sought,
A gift of closeness and a sign of life,
A precious thing like love that can't be bought,
So I could imagine, in my classic dream,
As I would awaken gazing at a frill
Or a warm suffusion with a soft bouquet
That I'd hear you whisper, o, so sweetly,
"I will!! I will!! Yes, I will!!
Yes, I will!!"