A waving field where flame-like flowers bloom,
(That fateful flower of old Sicilian doom—
Great Demeter, we thought not then of thee!)
We plucked. We ate. The fruit was strangely sweet,
And hell and heaven opened at our feet.
IX
“Be at the opera”—you write—to-night—
The crimson rose I send on your breast wear,
My lips had blessed it ere I sent it where
They, too, have lain and learned love’s speech aright.