“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.”