To govern, as they term it,
(It's really very odd!)
And have what they call worship
Of something they call God.
But Kitty, or whatever
May be her tender name,
Is more like us. She guesses
What sets the year aflame.
She knows beyond her senses;
Do tell her all you can!
The funny people need it,--
At least, so says The Man.
Good-by, dear. I must idle.
Sweet suns and happy rains!
How nice to have these humans
With their inventive brains,--
Their little scraps of paper!
They certainly evince
Remarkable discernment.
Your ever loving Quince.
Today, through your Easter market
In the lazy Southern sun,
I strolled with hands in pockets
Past the flower-stalls one by one.
Indolent, dreamy, ready
For anything to amuse,
Shyfoot out for a ramble
In his oldest hat and shoes.
Roses creamy and yellow,
Azaleas crimson and white,
And the flaky fresh carnations
My Orient of delight,--
Masses and banks of blossom
That dazzle and summon the eye,
Till the buyers are half bewildered
To know what they want. Not I.