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.
THE GOD OF MY GODDESS
The old gods and their slaves I've deserted;
The new gods I've shunned at first sight;
And my god is the god of the goddess
That presides at my feast of delight.
But once, when the dark moment lingered,
I questioned the god she adores;
To his throne I implored her to lead me,
And, behold! I'm the god she implores.
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