Independent Blossoms

When the spring boughs were told Soon the rose will unfold Herself in the bower Of which she is queen, Their blossoms, beguiling The sad leaves, said smiling: “No slaves to a flower Have we ever been.”

Our lords are the birds. And they love not in words; They sing when we smile And sob when we fall; Her lord is the liar— The thief or the buyer— Who smells her the while She lives, and that’s all.