Sing now no hymn nor chant a dirge Nor weep for any dead thing, Still in her veins an ardent sting Her beating blood can urge. To the white pale lily she is kind, Rearing a few flowers that are red, Yet sometimes weeds grow there instead ... In the conservatory of her mind. A quick caress she gives the rose, Lilac, geranium -- all in season ... Oh, if she might have seen a reason For powdering her nose! Too deft at lavender and chintz, Too cold for wooing but not wan, She dreams a springtime gentleman To have come a springtime since. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...QUESTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONGS OUT OF SORROW: REFUGE by SARA TEASDALE FEARS IN SOLITUDE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE SOWER AND HIS SEED by WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: BENJAMIN PANTIER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD by THOMAS MOORE |