Poetry · Independent Blossoms

Independent Blossoms

When the spring boughs were told

Soon the rose will unfold

Herself in the bower

Of which she is queen,

Their blossoms, beguiling

The sad leaves, said smiling:

“No slaves to a flower

Have we ever been.”

Our lords are the birds.

And they love not in words;

They sing when we smile

And sob when we fall;

Her lord is the liar⁠—

The thief or the buyer⁠—

Who smells her the while

She lives, and that’s all.