There was a time when in late afternoon
    The four-o’clocks would fold up at day’s close
Pink-white in prayer, and ’neath the floating moon
    I lay with them in calm and sweet repose.

And in the open spaces I could sleep,
    Half-naked to the shining worlds above;
Peace came with sleep and sleep was long and deep,
    Gained without effort, sweet like early love.

But now no balm—nor drug nor weed nor wine—
    Can bring true rest to cool my body’s fever,
Nor sweeten in my mouth the acid brine,
    That salts my choicest drink and will forever.

Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly
         My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily
         Soft-scented in the air for yards around;

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!
         Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief
         In the young pregnant year at Eastertime;

And many thought it was a sacred sign,
         And some called it the resurrection flower;
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine,
         Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.