Out of a florist's some pansies
Peer at the crowd, like the faces
Of solemnly mischievous children
Going to bed...
And women—Spring's favorite children—
Frail and phantastically fashioned,
Pass like a race of immortals,
Too radiant for earth.
The pale and the drab are transfigured,
They sing themselves into the sunshine—
Every girl is a lyric,
An urge and a lure.
And, like a challenge of trumpets,
The Spring and its impulse goes through me—
Breezes and flowers and people
Sing in my blood...
Breezes and flowers and people—
And under it all, oh beloved,
Out of the song and the sunshine,
Rises your face!
TRIBUTE
Never will you let me
Tire of leaping passion;
Never can I grow weary
Of undesired joys.
The delicate strength of your bosom;
Your hands' incredible softness;
The fluent curve of your body;
The fierceness of your lips;
Ceaselessly do they call me—
You and your eloquent beauty
Are challenge and invitation
Too ravishing to resist.