A Talk With The Flowers

Upon my passing, slow or swift, by you I lingered not, nor stooped to pluck you, flowers! I saw you as a vision skyward roaming, And I adored you just as thought and sky! My hand reached not to touch you sinfully, My flowers! For what is most beautiful Is also most remote. You were for me The music that the wind brings on its wings In perfect strains directly to the heart. I wished your dazzling could remain as that Of castles barred and inaccessible. From far thy fragrance came to me, O jasmine; And thy gleam, lily, like the eyes' light-kisses!

But since my darling child lay down to sleep The bitter sleep that knows no wakening, I am the cruel reaper always bending Above you, gathering you one by one, And ever binding you in royal garlands, And ever weaving you into rich robes For him! I wish to play new plays with him, And spread you over him as mine embrace! I wish to raise him as a flower garden Breathing into his grave the flower soul Of an immortal April. Oh, I wish ... Weak though I am, would all earth's verdancy Were a long dream and kiss for my beloved! Would that whatever is beyond man's touch, Air-born, transcending earth, or fleeting, all That has a sunbeam as its heart, a breeze as body, Fair vision, thought, or heaven--would that I Could close them into forms and scatter them Upon his flower-clad grave with you, sweet flowers!

In my paternal love, pure white, the flames Of passion burn; and then, the yellow languor Of a sick man! Thus did I love him, flowers! His father though they called me, I was his lover!

O flowers, did you know it? Was your life, So pure and little, ever touched by such A woe? Does not a quenchless longing stir you As you grow on the selfsame flower bough?

The body of my child, sent up from depths Unfathomed of a secret Fate unhoped, Was an epiphany of the fair bride, The bride undreamable, intangible Of a god's dream! Was he of mine own blood? I never thought whether he was to live, Grow, or advance in thought and deed; I was Drunk with his luring wine, his eyes, his face, His gait! The breath of blest Makaria Had blown on him! The stranger's song revolved Before my mind: "Thou little line so fine, Written with roses, line that wert his mouth, How dost thou give birth to that mighty trembling?"

How often when he turned away his lips So beautiful in careless weariness From mine embrace, I felt the torturings Of a disease and drank the bitter draughts Of jealousy! How often, when he lay Reclining on mine arms and breathing gently, I thought I held the graspless image of Beauty light-born, and said: "What is there more For me to hope?" O flowers, did you know it? Can you, too, mingle your little hidden hearts Fed with sweet honey, the pure frankincense Of a thrice-blue and earth-transcending worship, With love's uneasy little tremblings?

Of jealousy! How often, when he lay Reclining on mine arms and breathing gently, I thought I held the graspless image of Beauty light-born, and said: "What is there more For me to hope?" O flowers, did you know it? Can you, too, mingle your little hidden hearts Fed with sweet honey, the pure frankincense Of a thrice-blue and earth-transcending worship, With love's uneasy little tremblings?

Oh, The bitterest and saddest blows, the blows That know no healing on this earth of ours, Come from our dearest! Thus he fled and left me A bitterness beyond all sorrow's pangs, O little flowers, flowers of dark death!