The Nightshade breathes its careless boon of death
To lips that tamper lightly with its blooms;
The Meadow-sweet with carved tiaras deft;
The Poppy-petal’s crumpled charactery;
The tangly ramified Convolvulus;—
All of their several virtues are bereft
At the soft touch of thy Simplicity,
Simplicity of peace voluptuous.
Oh, exquisite marvel, whither shall I turn
To sate the thirstings thou hast spoken up?