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.

From Myrtle and Myrrh (The Gorham Press, 1905) by Ameen Rihani. This poem is in the public domain.