AT THE FLOWER-SHOW

A ROSY haze misted the air, perfume Of flower-flesh, like flesh of white younglings, Fresh from a cool brook-bathing; gorse and broom, Spotted hibiscus, purple cyclamen-wings. Nimbus and halo floated in dewy gloom; Quirled chaliced orchids, jasmine’s jewelled strings Sprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room. So quietly the human throng moved by, It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest face Was wistful, pensive, reverent of eye Wandering the trellised paths with dreamy pace; And there were soft communings, whispers shy— Lovers at ease, seeing the leaves embrace. Thus was it that I witnessed rivalry, And rose-lipped envy in this blossom place. “We are the most like you,” the young girls said. “Our bodies satin smooth have vernal dowers; Our hair gleams gold, our cheeks are sunshine fed; Like bud and calyx are our hidden powers.” Then was I, listening, rare astonished, Hearing disclaimer from the iris towers, Seeing demure, bright rose and lily head. “You are not very like us,” sighed the flowers. Then there came women made of night and stars, Women of dusky eye and cirrus tress From whom men rush to wreckage and to wars, Frenzied of their inscrutable caress. “We are like you,” they said, “competitors For admiration; yea, in perfumed bowers” Negation from green-hooded councilors, “You are not like us,” soft condemned the flowers. And then there drifted by hard graceless forms, Dull, rayless eyes, that looked, yet had no sense Of umbelled mysteries, of disks, and norms Of myriad seed-cells, witherings recompense; Unapprehending, they, of shining swarms, Of pollen flight from downcast petal showers, Nor guessed the Spell in seed-pod multiforms. “These surely are not like us” breathed the flowers. Then came an old woman, worn and sorrow-wise. Creeping in slow persistance like a vine; And there were wells of light within her eyes; Her hair was milk-weed white. By every sign Of age, dried stalk of past fecundities. She was the silvern wraith of fair Design. “Yea, richly did I spend Life’s vivid hours; Mine has been Love and many children mine.” “Verily, Sweet, thou’rt like us,” smiled the flowers!