What heart but fears a fragrance?
Alien they
Who breathe in the white lilac only May;
For there be other spirits unto whom
Fate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume!
Who mock at ghosts of odour—poor they be!
Bereft the scented balms of memory,
For unto one in April's rain-blest earth
There starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth;
And Love will find in rooms unbarred for years
Familiar sweetness loosing sudden tears,
Clasping the will in mastering embrace
As in the presence of a phantom grace.
Then there be odours pungent—fires in Fall
The gipsying of boyhood to recall;
And there be perfumes holy—nay, but one
Whose pang is like none other 'neath the sun
To drown the sinking senses in a joy
Beyond all time to weaken or destroy!
Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress—
Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless;
Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in fee
Doth wed the heart in Life's eternity.
Who fear no wraiths of fragrance—sorry they;
Who breathe in lilac odours only May;
For there be other mortals unto whom
White magic wanders in each stray perfume.
Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi
YEARS AFTERWARD
It is not sight or sound
That, when a heart forgets,
Most makes it to remember:
It's some old poignant scent re-found—
Like breath of April violets,
Or apples of September.
It isn't song or scene
That stirs the tears again:
It's brush smoke from the hills at night,
Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen,
Long lost aroma of delight,
Fresh ploughed fields after rain.
Nancy Byrd Turner