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The violets their soft, dark lashes part,
While robins serenade them far and near ;
But the anemone, with ebon heart
And blood-shot eyes, pretends she does not
hear.
The violets invite the nightingale
Whose carols fall in dew upon their bed ;
But the hydrangea, as saffron pale,
Holds high above the wall her nodding head.
From Myrtle and Myrrh (The Gorham Press, 1905) by Ameen Rihani. This poem is in the public domain.
To B.C.R
O my Love, how long wilt thou continue
Fondly nursing every dreaming Hour!
Our Lebanus, O my Love, is calling,
Yea, and waiting in his ancient Tower.
I wander among the hills of alien lands
Where Nature her prerogative resigns
To Man; where Comfort in her shack reclines
And all the arts and sciences commands.
But in my soul
The eastern billows roll—
I hear the voices of my native strands.
Is ’t strange that in the cycle of his woes,
Which shakes his cloud-embosomed peak of years
And shatters the very fountain of his tears,
He seeks the friendly path of winds and snows?
When Villainy forgiven more villainous grows,
And Treason in his robes herself attires,
And Love beneath Adultery’s sheet expires,