I forget the title of this poem but think it appeared in the Ladies' Home Journal in the fifties. I liked it well enough to memorize it.
This is strange . . . that we who share this ecstasy together
Should find no mark upon us, as on the tree chaotic passionate weather
Scores leaf and bough with scars tempestuous.
For it would seem your lips should blaze a brand
Across my brow; your touch should burn and bruise me,
And my quick ardently caressing hand
Should sign you, too, so you could never lose me.
And yet, a flash of brush across my hair,
A swift, hard smoothing out, your cooling glance,
We could go down, if company should call . . .