“How well do you love me,” Spring flowers croon
Flirting their petals at strong, burning Noon.
“Well! But— I love thee less than a man
Loves the white fingers he holds in his hand.
He loves more than I love, and smiles more than I
When early the morning your petals I spy.
He holds ever dearly what I can but see
Walking through fields of flowers and bees:
A warm-hearted woman who loves in return.
She blossoms before him, while I gaze and burn.
He caresses her gently, not unlike the wind
Will touch your white petals and sway your green stem.
He promises her morrows of laughter and light
And still gives her warmth when I die for the night.
He loves ever truly, and finds love the same
My love is a symbol, while theirs is the flame.”