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.