They flew in golden convoys to the mountains of the moon.
And there, in caves by cataracts, where nothing could annoy,
Poured gallons in the caverns when Confucius was a boy.
Many mountains bulged with honey stored before the days of Ming,
From each crevice dripped the essence of a very precious thing.
Imprisoned in this honey, aging as the æons wane,
Are the souls of all the flowers, waiting to be born again.
Every lotus, every poppy, every tulip, every rose,
And those who sip the honey slip beyond all human woes.