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.