On Arranging A Bowl Of Violets
I dip my hands in April among your faces tender,
O woven of blue air and ecstasies of light!
Breathed words of the Earth-Mother, although it is November,
You wing my soul with memories adorable and white.
I hear you call each other:
'Ah, Sweet, do you remember
The garden that we haunted—its spaces of delight?
The sound of running water—the day's long lapse of splendor,
The winds that begged our fragrance and loved us in the night?'