The gentle blue violets and gentle green grow
The cobble-brick parapet in mossy-rich stone:
While over by the arches bright,
In the rhythm of a skillful show,
A rock of orange flowers ride
To sing to me a livid woe:
"The lilac, the lilac, behind thee it heaves!
Abhor it! Abhor it! A nature by trees!"
Stood there a lilac by the painted blue bea';
Of doves the white flower, bright beacon by sea:
"O lilac, a lilac, sitting by the sands,
Why do you sit alone? Why grow roots in sand?"
And lilac replied back while turning its head:
"Young poet, some poet, where I should instead?
The grass steals the sun and boards its sunbeams,
The flowers that chat like seabirds that scream,
The earthly big worms that bite and all tear
And women and men whom touch and all stare!"
Why lilac! My lilac! You've turned off thy sense!
The big ocean breath will swallow thy stems!
The iron-grain sands to throttle your leaves,
The baby-born branches, the splinters that rend
In a frenzy to put your flower debris
And rip you into the wide ocean
Sea!
Ah poet, young poet, who perceives my unseen:
The tidal, the waves do rather seem mean;
Upwell my roots and leave me the trees:
Oh poet, my poet, how different you see.